


We Don't Have To Like Each Other To Survive This

by Iravaid



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Torture, Vampire Politics, the homies are Suffering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iravaid/pseuds/Iravaid
Summary: One evening, Nines wakes up in a cell with Sebastian LaCroix, the last guy he'd ever want to be stuck with. They must work together to survive against enemies both old and new. The clock counts down, and an agreement is made.The rest is history.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Nines Rodriguez
Comments: 126
Kudos: 73





	1. Better Places To Wake Up In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The terms are vicious  
> Time is tight  
> No one gets  
> Too much light
> 
> \- As Many Candles As Possible, The Mountain Goats

* * *

Nines wakes up in increments, the haze of the previous night settling over his brain in a thin film. There was shouting, chaos. Something was on fire, people were yelling. Yelling for him. A sharp pain to his neck, then black.

A dull thud pierces behind his eyelids and the hard surface underneath leaves a permeating ache in his bones. The smell of blood and antiseptic sticks to the back of his throat. Above Nines, a filament lightbulb buzzes overhead.

There’s something cold pressing tightly around his wrists and Nines belatedly realises he’s handcuffed to a metal chair. Judging by his aching neck and shoulders, Nines has been there a while. 

Groaning, he forces his eyes to open. Nines winces as bright, white light invades every corner of his vision. He curses, snapping his eyes shut. Nines opens them again, slower now; letting them accumulate to the brightness. Something he hasn’t had to do in years. Decades, even.

He’s in a box of a room that resembles something from a horror movie; dark, cement walls and floors with angry shadows crouching in the corners where the light cannot reach. A metal door sits in the wall directly opposite of Nines. The light from the hallway casts the shadows of the bars into the room in an ominous fashion.

Blinking away the phantom colours, Nines focuses on a dark form that lays limp under those shadows.

It’s a man in a dark suit with his back to Nines. He’s curled in on himself and, if Nines focuses, he swears he can see tremors jittering along the man’s body. Sharp, pained whines wheeze out of him.

Nines tries to swallow but finds his mouth too dry to do so. Running his tongue over cracked lips, he gathers the energy to speak. The effects of whatever was injected into him still sapping away at his strength.

The first attempt only brings forth a breathy croak. His mind was still enshrouded by a thick layer of drug-induced fuzz, making it difficult to string words and thoughts together. Taking a breath in, Nines tries again.

“H-Hey.”

The body tenses, shoulders shooting up. Then it turns, revealing a crop of messy blond hair and a familiar face.

_Motherfucker_.

“So, you have finally decided to wake up.” Sneers Prince Sebastian LaCroix. Nines growls, glaring down at LaCroix.

There’s a green pallor to his skin that shouldn’t be there, and dark smudges under pale eyes. Dried vitae crusts the lower half of his mouth. LaCroix looks like shit, compared to the well-put-together Prince that Nines has had the misfortune of knowing.

Good. Bastard probably deserved it.

“Care to tell me where I’ve woken up, exactly?”

“I haven’t a clue. You’ve been,” LaCroix’s face spasms into a grimace before quickly smoothing over into something neutral, “been unconscious for about three days now. Give or take a couple… couple hours.” LaCroix finishes the sentence through gritted teeth, eyes drifting over to the spot above Nines’ shoulder. Nines frowns at the sight.

“The fuck’s wrong with you, you’re not even handcuffed.”

LaCroix bares his teeth, red and pink with blood.

“One of the more negative aspects of the Ventrue clan is our… sensitivity to lower quality blood.”

Nines huffs out a laugh.

“Shit, you sick on rat blood or something?” He'd heard of Ventrues being unable to stomach bad blood. Had thought it was just a rumour, until now.

LaCroix’s body jerks in on itself, as if to prove Nines right. His face scrunches into a grimace, eyes squeezing shut.

“Yes.” He grits out, like it pains him to speak. 

Nines lets out a dark chuckle. How rich.

“All high and mighty up in your tower, and all that's needed to take you down a peg or two is some animal blood. Good to know.”

LaCroix’s glare darkens, and he opens his mouth to fire back a response, when shadows crowd the space behind the metal door. Both men tense at the sound of heavy boots stomping down the hallway, accompanied by hushed voices.

There’s a thick clunk as the latch in the door retracts. Two guards file in, guns drawn. One aims the semi-automatic weapon at Nines, while the other directs theirs at LaCroix on the ground. A third person struts in. Her posture, and impressive looking Zweihänder strapped to her back, makes Nines suspect these are vampire hunters. The thought sets him on edge.

Lazy brown eyes peer down at Nines, meeting his gaze before sliding over to LaCroix’s hunched form.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Her voice is low, an assured tone ringing out into the room with little effort. She motions to the guards, who lower their weapons and move to stand at the door.

“I would apologise for the state of your accommodation, but considering what you two actually are, this is far more than what is deserved.”

“Lucky us.” Remarks Nines, brow raised.

“I won’t give you my true name. But you will know me as Inquisitor De Mer.”

"I don't care." He responds, quelling the bubble of unease rising in his guts. Hunters. He's been snatched by _hunters_.

The woman huffs a laugh, her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I see the sedatives did little to dampen your spirit, Nines Rodriguez.” She remarks, looking over Nines' bound, hunched form with an interested air. “I was hoping they’d keep you under for a day longer; we gave you enough xylazine to kill a bull elephant.”

Nines doesn't respond, watching the inquisitor with all the bridled rage of a caged tiger. Despite her lidded gaze, the hunter's eyes are sharp as De Mer looks down at Nines. Even from where he's sitting, her arms are noticeably muscular, well developed from wielding the sword on her back. This one’s dangerous, whispers his instincts, and he’s not one to ignore them. 

She nods, almost approving of Nines' stare. De Mer looks down at LaCroix, sneer pulling at her top lip. In a tauntingly slow motion, the hunter brings a boot down onto his chest, pinning him to the concrete floor. LaCroix, too weak from the rat blood in his system, can barely do more than struggle against the offending limb.

"I see you've yet to get off the ground from your last feeding, LaCroix. What's wrong, is the blood simply not good enough for you?" She remarks, corner of her mouth pulling upwards in a mocking smile.

LaCroix grimaces, baring his teeth. The dried vitae on his mouth and front of his shirt crack from the movement. From his new position, Nines can see a dried, red puddle on the floor beside LaCroix. 

De Mer hums thoughtfully. 

"I've heard of the different vampire bloodlines, but never had the chance to properly study them. All other prisoners I have taken were fine when fed the blood of animals." She leans down to get a closer look at LaCroix, smirking as she does so. "What makes you so different, I wonder?" 

There's a pained silence as De Mer stares at the Ventrue, like he's a beetle she wishes to pin to a corkboard. The moment passes as De Mer straightens, the light casting dark shadows across her face.

"Tell me, LaCroix," she starts, voice deceptively soft. "Does the name Grünfeld Bach mean anything to you?"

LaCroix’s face goes slack in shock before rage pulls it back together. His glare makes the hunter chuckle.

“Good, it does. He’s been pursuing you for a number of years now. I wonder how satisfied he would be, to have the murderer of his father and grandfather so weak he can barely defend himself. The perfect welcoming gift." LaCroix, refusing to break eye contact, winces as the hunter grinds her heavy boot into his sternum. "I suggest you make peace with your fate, vampire. Brother Bach will be here very soon.”

The hunter takes her boot off LaCroix. She turns to Nines, gaze analytical under that lax expression.

“As for you, Nines Rodriguez, you will be kept alive for however long the Society of Leopold deems you useful.” She makes for the exit, the other two guards filing out behind her. “You may even do some good for the world and aid us in the cleansing of your fellow parasites.”

The door creaks shut with a chilling finality, the rage and terror of the hunter’s last statement settling in Nines’ chest. For now, the sedatives keep the emotions dull.

Nines leans back as far as he can in the chair, letting out a strained breath. 

"How the hell did I even get here."

"I'm the last person who can answer that for you."

"It was rhetorical LaCroix, mind your business."

"That will be difficult, considering we're currently sharing a cell."

Nines rolls his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He hears Lacroix sigh.

"There was... commotion in Downtown," the Ventrue begins, frowning as he thought back. "Something was happening near the Last Round. I was on the phone with Strauss about it, when something blasted out my office doors. Next thing I knew, I was in handcuffs, in a dark room, with nothing but your in-torpor corpse to keep me company."

Nines closes his eyes, straining to think back to that night. Hazy memories of someone shouting about a Molotov cocktail surfaces. He remembers the Anarchs scattering, hopefully running to their havens and away from the danger. Had the vampire hunters found them? He frowns. How could they, his people had been keeping a low profile for decades. Always covering their tracks. Someone must have tipped them off.

But who? Nines has never heard of these people, he doubts many Kindred or mortals have, either. If a Kindred even knew about the hunters, why would they endanger themselves by letting those jackals into LA's underworld?

Nines is jolted from his musings as the metal door creaks open once more. 

A guard stands in the doorway, shadow crawling up the cement floor and over LaCroix.

“Monster.” He starts, voice lilting with a Spanish accent. “It is time for your feeding.”

In his right hand is a half-filled blood bag and a long, silicon tube. Out the corner of his eye, Nines sees LaCroix tense. He looks down to see the Prince weakly pushing half his body off the floor.

The guard takes a step forward, face pulled into a look of disdain as he peers down at LaCroix.

“Where are the other guards?” Asks LaCroix.

“That is none of your concern.” The man unfurls the tube. Attached to it is a strange, metal device. 

Suddenly, LaCroix’s eyes flare cyan.

“Stop.”

The guard’s arms lower to his sides, face blank.

“Come here.” LaCroix orders, in a sharp, albeit weak, voice. The Dominated hunter’s feet drag as he staggers to LaCroix’s crumpled form.

“Kneel.”

There’s a thump as a pair of knees hit the concrete, hard. Nines’ own twinge in sympathy. The blood bag sags to the floor in front of Nines, and he wonders if he’ll have the chance of feeding anytime soon.

LaCroix heaves himself up, grasping the guard’s shoulder for leverage. Undoing his jacket, LaCroix bites into the meat of his neck where a carotid artery pulses. Nines watches LaCroix’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he feeds on the guard, who’s eyes are hazily fixed on the wall behind him, body slack.

His face is drawn as he drinks from the guard, like he’s struggling to stop himself from ripping the guy’s throat out. Maybe days of nothing but rat blood would do that to a Ventrue. Nines had subsided on rats, and other animals, during the first weeks of his unlife - too guilty to feed on a person. That feeling had quickly been overridden by the taste of fresh, human blood.

An indeterminate amount of time passes before LaCroix unlatches from the guard’s neck. He laves his tongue over the two puncture marks, and soon even the redness fades to nothing. LaCroix wipes his mouth with a ruined cuff before slouching against the wall.

When he speaks, his voice is steadier.

“You won’t remember this. You fed me the rat blood and you left. Pour the blood down the toilet and make sure it goes through the tube. Don’t let anyone see you do so."

The guard’s head moves up and down, mouth slack. He looks a touch paler than when he came in, but not enough to alarm any of the other hunters.

“Is that gonna hold once he gets out of here?”

The guard stoops up, wobbling before righting himself. The bag sloshes in his hand, crusted brown particulates gather at the top.

“It will stay for however long I need it to.”

The door creaks shut, the bars of shadow falling back over the room. LaCroix sighs heavily, staring at the puddle of vitae by the door with an intense expression.

“If we’ve been here for three days, why didn’t you try that sooner?”

LaCroix shoots him a look out the corner of his eye before his gaze flicks back to the puddle.

“That was the first time only one guard came. There have always been three or more during these... _feedings_.” LaCroix grinds the last word out with a grimace. "Something must have disturbed the schedule."

Nines makes a sound in the back of his throat. He thinks back to how LaCroix had tensed at the sight of the blood bag and feeding tube.

“Take it they’ve been making you eat that stuff so you’d be too weak to escape?”

Nines watches LaCroix’s hands ball up into fists before they shakily unfurl over his knees. 

“If it’s all the same to you, mister Rodriguez, I would rather not talk about it.” His posture and expression sinking back into the mask of an unflappable Camarilla Prince.

Nines is half tempted to keep prodding, just to get a rise out of the stuffy asshole. But he’s seen that look in other Kindred’s eyes. Haunted, barely choking back bad memories. Keen to lash out if they came to a boil. And Nines wasn't in any state to defend himself. His wrists creak from the tightness of the cuffs, reminding him of where he is.

Instead, Nines closes his eyes, focusing on the buzzing of the light bulb, and the growing ache in his extremities.

“Any thoughts on how to get out of here?”

“No,” LaCroix grunts, “I don’t have any idea past getting out of here before Bach makes his debut.”

Nines sighs, a leftover reflex from when he was alive. While his atrophied lungs didn’t need to breathe, it still centres him. Lets his thoughts clarify and sharpen.

“It’s a start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy let's start this thing!  
> i'm a fair bit new to the vtmb scene, haven't finished the game myself lmao, so there might be some lore and setting inconsistencies, but this fic idea wasn't leaving me alone until i wrote it  
> as the tags said, the homies are Suffering, and will continue to do so until a later date  
> if you're enjoying this so far, please leave kudos and maybe a comment, they let me know people are interested in this story


	2. Waiting's The Worst Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found myself, found myself amongst the thorns and weeds  
> You found yourself, found yourself amongst the beautiful trees  
> We are not the same, no, we are not the same
> 
> \- Midnight Dove, Shaun James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> specific warning for this chapter - descriptions of force feeding via a feeding tube inserted in through the mouth

As much as the shrivelled up, optimistic side of Nines had hoped for a chance, some kind of opening: none came in the days following his awakening. Buzzing cicadas are lodged in his chest with no chance of escape. An ache has burrowed deep in Nines' hips from sitting for so long. His hands are numb from the restraints. Sharp jolts of pain shoot up his arms with each shift and involuntary flinch.

Nines' mind refuses to abandon the thought of the Anarchs, his people. There had been a fire in the Last Round. One of the windows had shattered, and suddenly the bottom floor had erupted into gouts of orange and yellow flames. Nines remembers the smell of smoke, how the screams of patrons downstairs bubbled over the loud music.

Him, Skelter, Jack, and Damsel had jolted into action: breaking down doors and windows, dragging injured Kindred out of the burning building. He’d gone in one last time, hoisted a Gangrel neonate over his shoulders, and left through the fire escape.

There was shouting, Damsel was calling his name, trying to get his attention.

Nines hadn’t been able to respond. There'd been a sharp pain, bringing with it the blackness of heavy sedatives. Nines’ neck aches at the injection site, even though it had healed over long before he awoke.

He hopes they’re alright. That more people got out than those who couldn’t. That, for once, his people are safe. 

For now, his only company is the writhing Camarilla Ventrue on the ground.

The feedings are… wrong. Nines isn’t a squeamish man. He doesn’t even _like_ LaCroix. The man represents everything Nines despises about the Camarilla; two-faced, backstabbing, rich bastards that step on the little guy.

But Nines isn’t so heartless as to not wince when three men pin a struggling LaCroix to the wall, forcing his mouth open with a metal clamp that latches around his canines and pries his jaws apart. He winces at LaCroix’s gagging as the silicon tube is forced down his throat to his stomach. He winces as the bag is raised and rat blood flows down the tube, kicking feet growing weaker with each passing second.

He winces when LaCroix spends an hour vomiting it back up. Then another shivering, as the rat blood absorbed as vitae is rejected by his system.

De Mer juts out from the other monks in a way that sets Nines’ fangs on edge. When the hunters force-fed LaCroix, she’d knelt down and watched intently as he gagged and fought against them. Other vampire hunters would have just killed the two Kindred the first chance they got. They weren't supposed to be interested in studying them like some kind of animal. Weren't supposed to be competent.

De Mer's demeanour does little to make Nines think their prolonged survival was a mercy. The same way a rat holds little love for its researchers, Nines wants nothing more than to either slink away from De Mer's invasive presence, or rip her throat out to finally remove the threat to himself and his people.

* * *

Like clockwork, De Mer would pin her gaze on Nines and LaCroix and let them know just how close their ends were.

“Bach had been preoccupied with a nest in Lisbon. It has been thoroughly cleansed, I assure you.” Her barbed wire voice curls around the bars. “He estimates his arrival to be within three days.”

She would wait, until both LaCroix and Nines were glaring back at her, before turning and walking away. 

Her heavy footsteps ring out down the hallway, and Nines realises she’s going left. He strains, hearing a door open before silence blankets the cell once more.

It’s with that discovery that Nines starts to pay closer attention to what he can’t see. The air is thick and stale, like there’s not much circulation. Occasionally he hears thumping steps above his head, or the creaking of a floorboard. Are they underground? There’s at least one floor above them.

The Society of Leopold are a religious order, as far as Nines has figured out, drawing on Faith to combat vampiric abilities. It would make sense for them to hole up in a church or monastery. Not that he knows of any in LA that haven’t been abandoned or converted into nightclubs. 

"You have any info on the active churches in LA?" He asks LaCroix, when the other man is more lucid. LaCroix's brow knots together.

"Why?"

"'Cause we might be holed up in one."

LaCroix hums.

"There's hundreds, Mr. Rodriguez. Just because we've cast our lots in with Caine doesn't mean there aren't still believers."

Nines rolls his eyes at LaCroix's condescending tone.

"No, I mean buildings that these assholes could use, prick." 

LaCroix shifts, expensive jacket rasping against the rough concrete.

"There are a few monasteries I've been keeping an eye on for hunter activity." He pauses, tapping his knee. "But considering the fact that neither us of were aware the Society of Leopold were in the area until this... altercation, I believe it's safe to assume it's none of them."

Nines sighs, wondering if even Beckett would know. The independent Gangrel seemed to have an eye on everything in the States. 

* * *

“Two days.” De Mer looks down at LaCroix, who had propped himself up against the wall. “I wonder if they hold any meaning to a man born two centuries ago. That is how old you are, yes?”

LaCroix’s glare is her only response.

“How deceitful, with a face as youthful as yours.”

LaCroix spends the rest of the night scowling at the floor, ignoring Nines and the jeering guards. Nines remembers hearing Isaac Abrams refer to him as baby-face; knows that elders like Regent Strauss see him as little more than some neonate with too much power. Nines wonders how much LaCroix himself has heard. 

* * *

Nines tries not to let the panic get to him. It’s reflexive, at this point. Having lived through the terror of his new family being hunted down by these bastards, and the terror watching his old one starve, and work themselves, into early graves. Maybe the true curse of the Brujah was watching your family die again and again. Too passionate, too emotional to do nothing more but let people back into your heart, only to have them swiped away. The thought leaves him hollow.

The hunger does little to dampen his encroaching fear. But fear can make many convincing arguments about doing something, rather than nothing. Right now all Nines can do is plan.

Nines stretches out to where the other man is balled up on the floor, nudging LaCroix with his foot.

“What.” He hisses, twisting to face Nines.

“Just checking if you’re still alive.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“A real comedian. Listen. Next time it’s just the one guy, let me have the rat blood instead of getting rid of it.”

LaCroix peers at Nines with feverish eyes, brow furrowed. Nines sighs.

“It’ll actually do me some good, I haven’t fed in days.”

When LaCroix stays quiet, peering up at Nines, he catches on to what LaCroix’s probably thinking.

“I’m not some Camarilla asshole that’s gonna ditch you when there’s enough vitae in me. I’m not you.” Nines snaps. 

“Easy for you to say, Rodriguez." LaCroix sneers. "But when the chance does come, and only you can escape, would you really waste that opportunity? To, what, uphold your morals? Or will you run away with your life like the rest of us.”

Nines glares down at LaCroix, who stares right back. Nines leans down best he can, the edges of the restraints digging into his arms.

“I’m not some backstabbing bureaucrat you’ve had to deal with in the past. When we get the chance, _both of us_ are getting out. Got that? And if we’re gonna survive this, we have to count each other.

“I’m not asking you to like me, LaCroix, all I fucking want is to get out of here. And if it means I have to work with you of all people, then that’s what’s going to happen.”

LaCroix frowns at Nines, eyes flicking across his face like he’s trying to catch a flinch, a grimace, a glint in his eyes. Something that would catch him out of the lie.

A moment passes, the glare faltering. When LaCroix fails to see any deceit, he nods.

“I see what makes you so popular with the Anarchs.” He remarks, almost bitterly. The other man turns back on his side, facing away from Nines. Nines takes it as an agreement, and settles back on the chair.

He stairs up at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of movement above, trying to piece together a floorplan.

“Who the hell is this guy, Bach?” He asks, absentmindedly. Tiredness beginning to pull at the base of his skull.

“Vampire hunter…” Mutters LaCroix, voice slurred as the day pulls them into stasis. “Killed his dad… and grandad...”

“That’s it?” Nines flexes his fingers, thinking of how many families he himself had wiped out over the years, human and Kindred alike. Only some had been truly necessary. As Jack loves to say, there’s no good vampires. Just bad, and _worse_.

“Humans love their grudges.”

LaCroix’s remark echoes in Nines’ skull as the sun begins to rise, putting the two men to rest.

* * *

When Nines blinks away the day, the feeling of eyes on him prickles up the sides of his neck.

From the door, De Mer’s grim visage peers in.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to wake, vampire. Brother Grünfeld Bach is here.” Her face splits into a bestial smile. “He would like to have a talk with the two of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am, what the kids would call, ~projecting~ my experiences with chronic illness onto lacroix lmao, sucks to be him, writhing on the floor and constantly in pain because his body's fighting itself... totally don't know what that's like  
> and also thank you for all the nice comments ;w; they really got me hyped to write this, ik not much happened in this chapter, but as the title says, waiting's the worst part


	3. The Bite Of Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold my hand  
> Oh baby it's a long way down  
> To the bottom of the river
> 
> \- Bottom of the River, Delta Rae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> specific warning for this chapter - graphic descriptions of torture, the homies are suffering today lads :/

Grünfeld Bach is a man who fills the room with a heavy presence. Like the pressing of an elephant’s foot to Nines’ skull, the vampire hunter’s gaze is forceful with the sheer amount of hatred brimming in it. A wicked looking scar curves up the right side of his face, twisting and jumping as he talks. He sounds old school, like the Catholic preachers Nines would see in the street, yelling about eternal damnation and the encroaching end times.

“And here knelt before me are two creatures, waiting for their divine punishment. Cattle of the devil himself.”

He stands self-assured and confident, hands neatly held behind him. The hunter's posture was reminiscent of a military general perusing his troops. But instead of soldiers, it’s Nines and LaCroix kneeling on the ground, hands cuffed behind their backs. Bach doesn’t seem as interested in Nines as he peers down at LaCroix, who stares back with that potent Camarilla sneer.

“So this is the place where you chose to make your nest, LaCroix.”

Hunters liked to pretend they were above mortal follies. But no one, dead or alive, can deny themselves the occasional bout of gossip. Nines had heard Bach’s fervour ran deeper than duty, that he was more interested in vengeance against LaCroix than hunting Kindred.

“Did you think you could slip between the cracks and escape my grasp forever?”

“I was hoping the fire had done you in, like it did your father.” LaCroix growls.

A thunderous scowl flashes across Bach’s face, a sharp crack ringing out in the room as he viciously backhands LaCroix. The Prince's head jerks to the side, the force of the hit almost throwing him off balance.

“Do not speak of him, beast.” He snarls. The hunter tenses, rearing back to strike LaCroix again, when De Mer clears her throat.

“We may benefit from interrogating them before giving the vampires their Final Death, sir.”

Bach’s head jerks to where De Mer stands. He straightens, looking at her through the corner of his eye.

“And why haven’t you done so already, Inquisitor?”

De Mer seems to pause momentarily, frowning.

“I assumed you would have wanted to... _participate_ , sir.” She responds, gaze fixed on the wall over Bach’s shoulder.

“Fine.” He sniffs. “I will attempt to extract information from LaCroix. Send him to the third chamber, I want your most experienced Brothers assigned to my team. There will be no mistakes made to allow an early release from his punishment.”

“And the other vampire, sir?”

Bach’s grey eyes flick over to Nines. Appraising the Anarch with an air of apathy that’s almost unnerving to see from a face trembling with rage, not five minutes ago. Nines has a feeling those rumours are true.

“Do what you wish, De Mer.”

Bach turns on his heel and strides out of the room without waiting for an answer. De Mer watches his back with a carefully neutral expression.

“Of course, Brother.” She replies, to his retreating shadow.

* * *

LaCroix is dragged out the room and through a door, while several pairs of hands manhandle Nines through another. He gives as much of a struggle as he can, Brujah blood allowing nothing less. But Nines is easily overpowered in his weakened state.

The smell of warm blood pulsing in the hunters’ healthy arteries is enough to remind him that it’s been almost a week since he’s fed. Nines' reserves have run dangerously low.

They must’ve filched a gurney from the abandoned hospital in Downtown to restrain Kindred. They force Nines onto the leather padding with an almighty heave. Nines strains against the thick restraints, snapping at hands that get too close; until someone holds his head down and tightens a strap against his forehead.

He stares into his own pale eyes, reflected from the mirror on the ceiling. If he were still alive, Nines would be hyperventilating. When he’s fully secured, all the hands disappear as the hunters draw back. They don’t show it, but he can feel their apprehension at containing a Kindred, rather than killing it on the spot.

Above the groaning of the metal gurney from Nines’ struggling, heavy footsteps draw close. He hates how familiar they’ve become, how he instinctively tenses up.

“As much as I would love to dissect your corpse, mister Rodriguez, I can only look for information.” De Mer digs a finger into his sternum like it were a scalpel. Nines grinds his teeth together. De Mer watches the muscles jump in his neck and jaw with fascination. The expression makes Nines feel sick.

“I've always marvelled at one, fascinating, aspect of your curse. The way almost all physical ailments seem to vanish come morning." Her voice hisses around Nines with all the surgical detachment of a lobotomist. "You do understand what that means for you, now, don't you?”

Nines refuses to respond, staring at his own glare in the mirror. De Mer’s short-cropped, dark hair takes up his vision.

“It means I can do just about anything to you, without fear of shock, or infection, or a heart attack interfering with the process. A blank slate for me to work on each day.”

She leans in close to Nines’ ear, wet breath brushing against the side of his face. Nines barely contains his grimace.

“There is so much to learn from you. And I, for one, am very excited to see what I find out.”

The questions begin as one hunter enters Nines' peripheral vision. There's a clunk as something is set on a table.

“How many vampires inhabit Los Angeles?” Asks De Mer, voice gone clinically sterile. Nines dully registers the red dot of a recording camera, off to the side.

“How the fuck would I know that off the top of my head, asshole.”

The younger hunter, who Nines recognises as the Spanish monk that LaCroix had fed from the first night he awoke, quietly follows De Mer’s instructions. Looking at him, the man seems too young, baby fat still lingering on his cheeks.

His hands are steady as they drive iron nails up Nines’ fingers, though.

“Where do you creatures choose to congregate?”

“Remove these restraints and I’ll write up a list.”

De Mer bemoans the fact that vampires can’t be water boarded. Nines spits the snotty water remaining in his system at her, barely having the time to laugh before she tells the other hunters to heat up the soldering iron.

He doesn’t know if this would hurt more or less as a human. All he knows is that it _burns_ as De Mer carefully, and slowly drags the tool down his neck and arms. Leaving a sizzling trail of smoking, blackened tissue.

“When were you turned.”

“F-fuck… fuck you.” Nines grits out, back arching involuntarily as the Inquisitor digs the soldering iron into where his bicep connects to his shoulder. He can feel the muscle fibres snapping away, bunching up further down his arm.

Nines isn’t a praying man. He can’t be.

_But please, God, make this stop._

* * *

They throw Nines’ limp body back into the cell, not bothering to lock him in the chair. Come the next evening, his wounds will be healed over, returning to how he appeared when he was Embraced. For now, the shattered bones in his fingers ache with each phantom heartbeat.

Nines wheezes in a breath before crawling to the back of the cell, in a dark corner where the light is less piercing.

Nines is removed from his haze, drenched in old memories of dust storms and hunger, when the door creaks open once again. LaCroix is dragged by his arms into the cell. The guards drop him in front of the chair and promptly leave, ignoring Nines’ presence almost pointedly.

His tie and blazer had been removed, dress shirt poorly concealing the misshapen jut of broken limbs. Dried vitae is matted in his blond hair, and his hands are in a similar state to Nines’ own.

“Hammer?”

“Crowbar.” Nines winces at LaCroix’s cracking voice. Must’ve gotten him in the ribs, too.

“Ah. Those hurt.”

LaCroix lets out a wheeze of a laugh that sounds more like the scream of a rabbit caught in a snare.

“Lovely reminder that, despite being dead, we still feel pain.”

“Fucking sucks, if you ask me.”

LaCroix only has time to grunt in agreement as the arrival of morning swipes away their consciousness.

Like De Mer had predicted – any evidence of the angry soldering iron burning its way up Nines’ body is gone the next evening.

When heavy footsteps ring out down the hall, Nines unconsciously presses a hand to his arm. Placing it over the throb of an awful phantom burn that worms deep into the muscle.

* * *

There are times in the dark when both men find themselves talking. Maybe it was some kind of release from refusing to break under the hunters’ ministrations. Either way, it was far more words than Nines had ever thought about having with the Prince, that didn’t involve multiple threats from either party.

“I think Bach takes me up a level. The air smells different.”

“Make yourself useful next time, and remember the route.”

“Are we even going to get out of this? Our executioner’s here, he’s just waiting to swing down the sword.”

“You Camarilla are always so quick to give up once the going gets tough, huh.”

"I'm being realistic."

"No you aren't."

"..."

"Listen. I'm not letting you give up, asshole. You think I want to get out of here on my own? We're getting out together, then we go our separate ways and pretend this shit never happened, alright?"

"... Fine."

* * *

“Did you ever serve?”

“Pardon?”

“Heard you marched for The Usurper back in the day.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because we’ve been sitting here with nothing to do but wait for hours and I’m bored, Cammy.”

“Hmph. I was _Infanterie Légère_ in his army, yes.”

“You gonna explain what that means or…?”

“Learn French.”

“No.”

* * *

“I had a little brother that got sick, couldn’t stop coughing, couldn’t breathe lying down -"

“Consumption?”

“No clue. Died before we could pay the doctor to look at him.”

“I see… My condolences.”

Nines shrugs off the stilted platitude. Despite Brujah passion keeping him above that infamous Kindred apathy, the pain of losing Luis has dulled decades ago.

“I had a sister, back in Calais.” LaCroix starts, staring at the ground between them.

“What happened to her?” Nines asks. Because that was always the question that burned in a Kindred’s mind: What happened to those who remained? How quickly were they forgotten?

“I’m not sure. I don’t even know if she made it past infancy. I doubt it: it was the eighteen-hundreds. Children died. I was the only son to make it past eighteen.”

“You had brothers?” Nines had only ever thought of the man as some sad little only child; left to his own devices by distant, upper-class parents. The thought of LaCroix doing normal sibling things like rough-housing with older brothers, or reading to a younger sister, was alien.

LaCroix’s lips thin in the grimace of a bitter smile.

“Ash now. Some sickness or infection. I remember one dying in Napoleon’s march on Russia. I was in a different corps. One of the surviving members handed me his bloody handkerchief and said he was sorry.” LaCroix shrugs. “And that was it.”

Nines nods, he doesn’t offer any hollow apologies and LaCroix doesn’t expect any. It’s like he’d said, it was a different life. It’s all ash now.

* * *

"I don't know how to describe it, but this place feels weird. Like it's not where it's meant to be."

"If it is a monastery, like you suspect, perhaps De Mer has made some unwelcome renovations."

"You heard those guards bitching too, huh?"

"It's difficult not to."

Nines laughs. "Yeah, true."

* * *

When Bach first arrived, the two had stayed on opposite sides of the cell in an unspoken agreement - _don't bother me, and I won't bother you_. But as the days wore on, as their wills were ground against the whetstone of knives and crowbars and fire, Nines found his wounds ached less when he was slumped close to LaCroix.

There was little complaint from the other man when he had first crawled over, after a particularly brutal session with De Mer. Three of his fingers has been ripped out of their sockets, joint by joint. He had dragged himself to the closest, non-threatening presence and clung to a ruined pant leg. Mind screaming when the body couldn't.

Instead of smacking him away and hissing until the Anarch scurried to his side of the cell - Nines felt LaCroix worm his hand into his own, clasping it firmly. When Nines looked up blearily at LaCroix, the other man had held his gaze.

"Remember what we agreed." He'd whispered. _Don't give up. Don't make me escape by myself._

Nines had nodded, trembling grip remaining until torpor took them both. LaCroix's hand was rougher than he'd thought it would be. 

* * *

Sebastian is not a merciful man. One has to be a certain kind of cutthroat to survive Camarilla society. And even during his time as a mortal he found little use in letting enemy soldiers live, just for them to shoot down his men in the next conflict. That viciousness gave the Bach forefathers painful ends.

The eldest was ripped apart by frenzied fledglings Sebastian had Embraced from the man's own monastery. The son of the eldest had burned to death, Sebastian barring the only exit. Up until this point, he had justified it as self-defense. Vampire hunters were ruthless when given the chance. Eye for an eye and all that.

As the final, youngest Bach carves a serrated hunting knife through a layer of his skin, peeling back the flesh of his arm, Sebastian wonders if Bach's father and grandfather were watching in their afterlife. Cheering him on as he ripped apart their murderer.

He doesn't know if anyone would avenge him like this. He doesn't know anything but sharp, awful pain.

* * *

There are times when only one of the two is taken from the cramped room. The night only LaCroix is taken, one of the hunters throws a blood bag over his shoulder as an afterthought. Nines isn’t so proud as to deny he scrambled to snatch it out of the air.

The thing was only half filled and carried the foul taste of animal blood. But drinking it was like breathing again, after days without a feed. Nines is half tempted to rip the bag open and lick the dregs away, but decides it isn’t worth the possible beating.

Sighing, Nines shuffles into a wall, pressing his back against it to ground himself. Staring up at the ceiling, he frowns. In one of the back corners, where the light just barely glints against its metal grate, a small vent hangs overhead. Rusted gears begin to turn again as Nines remembers he isn’t here to die, that there’s people waiting for him out there.

When LaCroix is returned to his cell, he falls to the ground with a wet sound. His shoes had been removed and deep, thick cuts were made into the soles of his feet.

“They get you with the knife this time?”

LaCroix hums, weakly nodding his head. Then he sucks in a breath, shoulders visibly tensing. With shaking hands, he starts to crawl.

Head so low it almost touches the ground, LaCroix drags himself closer. Nines watches with a vague feeling of horrified awe as he digs an index finger into a sluggishly healing wound. Shakily, he makes a large dot on the ground, right by Nines’ thigh. Then a line going down from it, quickly turning left and dragging the line further on, trail of drying vitae being left behind.

Nines traces the makeshift map with his eyes, dedicating the route to memory. Out, left, straight, right, down.

He sees LaCroix staring at him, eyes hazed with a fog of pain. Waiting for an answer. Nines nods and LaCroix swipes a battered hand over the map, destroying it instantly.

It’s not much, it might not even work. It could be wrong. But it’s _something_. And that’s all Nines needs.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the map, remembering the path that distantly-heard footsteps took. Remembering stolen glances of important things. The gun locker, not too far from here. The metal door he'd never been dragged through. The strangely close sound of rushing water. An idea picks itself up out of the fugue, as the bones in his hands ache silently.

“Listen,” whispers Nines, careful of prying eyes and ears. He looks up at the vent, wondering how wide LaCroix’s shoulders are under all those layers. “I think I have a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whacked this chapter out As A Treat because i finished a spreadsheet for uni work lmao  
> things are ramping up, there May be a bit of a gap between this and the next chapter because i'll have to check a couple things in the game before progressing, but it should come along fast enough  
> edit - changed a few details because i finally played through the monastery level and had to make sure it aligned Somewhat


	4. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're coming all the way  
> I've got some hell to pay  
> I'm taking all the way  
> All the way down
> 
> \- Lecher Bitch, Genitorturers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no specific warnings for this chapters, but I make well on that graphic depictions of violence warning

They wait. Crouched like wild rabbits hunkered in their burrow, tense for when for the fox passes them by. There’s strange sounds going on around them, alerting Nines to the fact that something was wrong. Usually, there was only the quiet padding of footsteps above him at this time of night. Now, though, there was the sharp scrape of heavy wood on stone, gunshot, and muffled yelling.

A group of guards sprint down the hallway, one yelling _go go go!_ A chain is dropped, and guns are picked up. They run back from where they came, the metallic sounds of magazines being loaded into their Steyr Augs and Lassiter Killmatics accompanying the group.

Nines frowns as the distant sounds of gunfire begin to start up.

“The hell’s going on up there.”

LaCroix’s gaze is focused on where the sounds seem to originate.

“Something has gotten our captors riled up. Are your Anarchs equipped well enough to organise an attack?”

“They wouldn’t know where to look to even plan such a thing.” Nines refuses to answer the question fully.

“Something else, then.” LaCroix hums.

“What, no Cammy rescue coming for us?”

“We wouldn’t be this _loud_ , Rodriguez.”

A single pair of footsteps ring out down the hall.

“Shit, get up there, now.”

LaCroix grumbles something under his breath, balancing on the chair before jumping up and clambering into the vent. Nines shuts it behind him before sitting against the nearest wall, trying to emulate a man worn down and weary.

The young Spanish hunter throws the door open. Face smudged with soot, eyes wide and terrified.

“We’re moving you - Where is the second creature?” His voice is hurried, head swivelling as he scans the room.

Nines watches him linger in the doorway. _C’mon you little shit. Just a couple steps further_.

“No idea.”

“What? How could – I have no time for this,” the hunter shakes his head, stomping into the cell, making for Nines.

As he nears Nines’ spot, the vent is suddenly kicked open, grate slamming into his forehead. The hunter makes a choking sound, falling back and trying to kick his way out of the cell. Nines surges forwards, scrabbling up his trench coat and grabbing a fistful of hair, yanking his head to the side.

Nines forces the guard still. The Beast almost takes over, smelling mortal blood so near, after so long. Nines bites down on the throat hard enough to feel vertebrae grind against his jaws. It’s been days, and he is hungry. Hot aortal blood flows over his tongue, into his mouth and it is _euphoric_. Nines feels his strength returning, only making him bite down harder.

Weakly, the young man struggles against Nines’ bear-trap bite. Slapping at his face and gurgling as blood leaks into his ruptured trachea.

“Please…” He whines, as his face goes red, then suddenly very white.

Bloodshot, bulging eyes roll back into his skull. There’s a smack as his hand falls limply against the cement. Nines unlatches from the drained neck with a gasp, licking the blood off his fangs and lips, letting the taste linger on his tongue before swallowing.

“If you’ve had your fill,” remarks LaCroix, grunting as he drops out the vent and onto the chair. “Then hand it over.”

Nines looks down to see the purple-hued blood still pouring out of the unhealed bite mark. It’s not the high-pressure arterial spray of a slit throat, but it’s still substantial. The hunter will die regardless if both of them feed on him or not; no point in letting good blood go to waste. He pushes the body to LaCroix, who props the legs up on the chair and leans down to its neck, sharp canines digging into the soft flesh. 

Blank eyes stare up at an empty vent. Quiet air whispers downwards, brushing against a face frozen in terror, drained of all blood. LaCroix settles back on his haunches, wiping away the blood around his mouth. Nines watches him lick the blood from his fingers. A subtle power hums in the air. Both men are powerful Kindred, and now they have the vitae in them to prove just that.

The door is open. There’s commotion outside. Nines looks to LaCroix, whose pale eyes flick up to meet his. There’s glimmer of uncertainty, like he doesn’t believe this is happening.

Nines heaves himself up, striding towards the doorway.

“Now’s a good time as any to get our asses in gear.”

He hears LaCroix pad out behind him. In the cell, the single light bulb casts stark light against the grey and red mess of a young man on the ground. He will not be found for hours.

* * *

_Out, left, straight, right, down_. They dart through the strange cement hallway, keeping close to the walls and light on their feet. The floor is smooth, while the walls and ceiling appear as if the building was carved into rock, leaving rough stone that juts and roils irregularly.

Nines notes with a twinge of annoyance that the gun locker is empty. Metal chain swinging where it hangs, like there wasn’t enough time to put it back after the hunters grabbed their weapons. 

The sounds of fighting is getting louder now. Nines isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or not. Both men keep an eye out for any kind of improvised weapon, but even the young hunter who had gone to get them had no gun or knife on hand. The glass case for a fire axe is broken, shards scattered across the floor and axe missing from its pegs. _Out, left, straight, right, down._

A thick metal door seems lodged in the stone, reinforced glass window peeking out into a large cavern that looks like a training ground. Only now, the hunters seen to be embroiled in a vicious firefight against monsters that look strangely familiar to Nines, but he can’t place why.

To his side, LaCroix mutters a curse under his breath.

“It’s the Sabbat.”

“How do you know?” _The hell are the Sabbat doing here?_

“Those creatures there? Products of Tzimisce Vicissitude, flesh-moulders.”

Nines turns back in time to see a writhing mass of teeth and skin launch itself at a hunter. It catches them by the head and knocks them down to the ground. The thing jerks, dragging a trail of blood and gore with it as the hunter falls still.

“Nasty looking things, huh?” He muses, hoping they prefer the taste of mortal over Kindred.

“Yes, I’d stay away from the ones with teeth and revolting layers of skin.”

“That’s all of them, LaCroix.”

“My point remains.”

Nines rolls his eyes, grabbing the handle and inching the door open. His hand is smacked away by LaCroix.

“What are you doing _._ ” He hisses.

“Taking a look, calm down.”

“We can look through the window without alerting hunters and flesh-moulded monstrosities to our position.”

Nines grumbles, leaning in to look out the window. He leans over the same time as LaCroix, their heads thudding together. They glare at each other before, slowly, leaning and looking through the window.

“We could use those boxes along the left side – oh, no, someone blew them up.” Nines winces as a grenade blast shakes the earth, wooden boxes splintering in all directions. Three of those monsters die with a ear-ringing squeal, exploding in a mass of flesh and burning ash.

“There’s a small building off to the right, if we keep close to the wall, we should be out of sight long enough to slip away.”

“Yeah, we could go out through the centre, too. Those metal barricades look sturdy enough.”

LaCroix makes a noise of acknowledgement.

“Keep an eye out for anyone on the wall itself, I think I can see steps going up it.”

“Where?” Nines’ gaze follows LaCroix’s pointed finger. “Ah, gotcha. Maybe if we pick up a sandbag each and keep them over our backs, it’ll be protective enough.”

LaCroix shakes his head, eyeing the sandbags with a frown. 

“We’ll be too slow. If we keep to the shadows and try not to attract attention to ourselves, maybe both the chaos out there, and our use of Presence will be our shields.”

Nines nods.

“Alright. You ready?” He shoots a crooked grin to LaCroix, who gives him his own tentative smile. Their eyes meet and neither can name the energy between them, possibly a product of the adrenaline in the air. But it wasn’t unpleasant, whatever it was.

Suddenly feeling awkward, both men turn away from each other.

“Right.” LaCroix coughs, looking down at the ground. Nines rubs the back of his neck, opting to look at an interesting looking rock formation on the ceiling. “Yes, let’s get on with this, shall we?”

“Yeah, yeah. You first.” Nines says, gesturing to the door.

They inch out, LaCroix padding along the wall, arms spread either side of him. Nines follows, mimicking his movement.

* * *

From his vantage point Brother Grünfeld Bach peers down the scope of his rifle. He releases a breath, sitting with empty lungs, before squeezing the trigger. A demonic apparition is ripped from its lunge midair, vanishing in a grotesque splatter of gore and fire.

_Back from whence ye came._

Inquisitor De Mer has taken a group of their men outside, to deal with both the blaze and invading demons. Their sheer viciousness and physical strength proving a challenge to defeat. He doesn’t doubt his Sister’s abilities, but the fear remains all the same; that they will fail and Los Angeles will be lost indefinitely to the damned creatures of the night.

During his lapse of concentration, another hunter falls to yet another terrible demon. Its jaws snap hungrily at her flesh, dragging the tubes of her small intestine out into the dim, fluorescent lights. Bach asks for her forgiveness as he shoots the thing back to Hell.

As he lowers his gaze, reloading the gun with a new magazine, two creeping forms catch his attention. They’re unfamiliar, no body armour or trench coats on their person, no weapons in their hands. The shorter blond darts across to a barricade, keeping low to the ground. The taller, black haired man quickly follows. No other hunter seems to acknowledge them, either too caught up in the battle or... something else...

Grünfeld is not a suspicious man, but he trusts his instincts.

Looking through the magnified scope, his eyes widen when he realises the prisoners are trying to escape. Grünfeld grits his teeth. If De Mer had just killed those damned creatures... How unfortunate for a hunter with her track record to make an error as grave as this. Grünfeld intends to remedy her mistake.

With steady hands, he balances the rifle on rail, aiming downwards. He keeps his breathing steady, cross-hairs aligning between the pale brows of his father's murderer. It's as he pulls the trigger does the Satan's spawn catch sight of Grünfeld's rifle trained on them. An ear splitting crack roars out from the gun once more. The force of the recoil jolts the gun to the side. When Grünfeld realigns the sights, he sees a crumpled body with dark hair and no signs of ashing. LaCroix stares up at Grünfeld, glowering fiercely as he drags the limp body of his fellow vampire under cover, leaving a trail of dark vitae behind him. 

Cursing, the hunter refuses to look away, waiting for another chance to end that snake once and for all. This had gone on too long. All he had to do was _wait_.

He does not get this chance. Grünfeld is ripped from his gun by a swooping creature with wings of stretched flesh. Jagged talons dig into his jacket and pierces through his skin. Snarling, he calls upon his Faith once more. The battle between man and monster rages on below, as he blinds the creature with holy light. He crashes onto the metal platform below, a sharp pain lancing through his non-dominant shoulder.

Drawing his knife, he settles to take his rage out on the lumbering beast in front of him.

_Prepare to meet thy maker, demon._

Monster and monstrosity clash on the rusted iron railing, above a fight that's becoming increasingly one-sided.

* * *

That shot was meant for him and the idiot mortal couldn't do the one thing he'd dedicated his life to doing.

Sebastian _had_ ducked, not having the time to even think of warning Nines of the sniper, but his gripe still stands. 

Grunting, Sebastian drags Nines' writhing form under cover and away from that damned hunter's scope. The high calibre shot had ripped a chunk out of Nines' throat, spilling vitae out onto the ground. The irony isn't lost on Sebastian, but he finds little humour in watching Rodriguez convulse, a pained expression warping his handsome face. He opens his mouth to speak, nothing but a wet gurgle creeps out. LaCroix curses, clamping both hands over the wound. Nines keeps trying to mouth something, but LaCroix is too focused on keeping enough vitae in him to prevent a Frenzy to notice. 

Their eyes meet, LaCroix's steady gaze meeting Nines' bleary eyes before they roll back into his skull. Nines' body goes slack, torpor dissolving his consciousness. Sebastian releases his grip on Nines' throat wound, vitae beginning to congeal around the missing flesh.

Sebastian looks down at the unconscious body of Nines Rodriguez; de facto Anarch leader and constant thorn in his side. He should leave him here. Finally do away with one of the biggest challenges to his authority. But…

_I’m not some Camarilla asshole that’s gonna ditch you once I have enough vitae in me. I’m not_ you _._

“You know nothing about me.” Sebastian mutters. There’s no response, of course.

Sebastian’s head whips over to where the sounds of conflict grow in volume, and the time to act draws near. His eyes flick back down to Nines. With a resigned sigh he makes his choice.

“It’d certainly be a shame to survive all this, just for a misplaced shot to do you in.” He grabs Nines’ limp arm and, with a grunt, hoists the larger man over and onto his shoulders.

“You owe me for this, you know.” Sebastian says to no one. He calls upon Presence once again, hoping the muddying of their senses will be concealing enough, and makes for the dark tunnels

It’s chaos throughout the monastery. Carrying Nines up ladders and through cramped hallways was difficult in and of itself. But the task would have been impossible if those horrific Tzimisce creations hadn’t been causing ample distraction for the hunters. Sebastian had heard horrifying accounts of flesh-moulded monsters with boil covered flesh that shifted loosely over jagged limbs and claws. Maws of teeth and eyes and fingers meant to decimate and devour. Desperate to fill stomachs they didn't have.

He is reminded that Vicissitude is a damned art belonging to a damned clan when a squat-limbed creature with an enormous mouth launches itself at an unsuspecting hunter with startling speed. Latching onto her face and tearing it off in a spray of bright red. Glistening white bone gleams dully in the dark cave lighting.

Her screams chase him up the ladder as Sebastian takes his chance and sprints away from the brutal scene. Nine’s heavy body a firm weight against his back. Sebastian feels a twinge of gratefulness for having to carry his own pack during his time in _La Grande Armée_. Who could have predicted it would have left him with such an important skill.

The monastery is unnervingly empty, stone walls exposed in the parts where yellow plaster had begun to flake off. A lectern is overturned at the end of the hallway, where it opens up into a large room. Wax and extinguished candles lay scattered across the floor, the white mixing with the blood of downed hunters.

Some stare up at the ceiling, mouths agape and throats torn out. Others are in too many pieces to distinguish face from torso. Limbs still attached to their bodies sit crooked, pointing up to the rounded ceiling from the broken, displaced pews. Sebastian feels a twinge of satisfaction at their state. The phantom burn of the crosses Bach cauterised onto his face twinge, even though they had long since healed over.

Weapons lay forgotten on the floor, dropped during the panic of what must have been a sudden, violent attack. The Sabbat were not merciful to their own kind. To mortals, even less so. Sebastian forgoes grabbing a pistol or rifle; both hands busy keeping Nines secure.

The guns would prove useless against those creatures, their supernatural nature rendering man's favoured weapon near redundant. A poorly timed shot may give away his position, as well. No, better to play it safe and count on the confusion of the battle to keep him unharmed. 

The thick walls can only dampen the sound of rapid gunfire, shouting, and guttural snarls of creatures of flesh and dark magic outside. Laying Nines on the ground, Sebastian cracks a door open to peek outside. The orange haze of fire blazes off to the side, dark silhouettes clashing in its glow.

Tall rock formations encircle the monastery, barricading the courtyard. Above the grass and sand, turned slick from spilled blood and viscera, the swollen eye of the moon watches on. A sudden spray of gunfire and harsh yelling grabs Sebastian’s attention.

To his right, a large number of the remaining hunters encircle a disgusting mass of bruised, sagging skin. Thick arms dig into the ground, blackened fingers splayed inhumanly to gain purchase. A pair of long, almost spider-like arms are raised high before crashing down upon two hunters, who roll out of the way in opposite directions.

The malformed face of the creature grimaces, lipless mouth pulling back to expose needle-like teeth, coated in gore. It rears up, exposed rib-cage convulsing as it charges. This time, the hunter is unable to escape the thing’s grasp. His gurgling scream is cut short as it takes him in two hands and _rips_.

It flinches, suddenly, as a war cry rings out through the courtyard, followed by the impact of steel on flesh. A shrieking, animalistic cry rattles through it as De Mer’s Zweihӓnder cuts through a supporting limb. De Mer’s teeth are a striking white under the blood coating her face as she snarls at the abomination in righteous fury.

Tearing his gaze away from the fight, Sebastian can make out an opening in the outcrop of rock. He looks back to Nines, face drawn and spattered with his own vitae. The wound had finally healed over, but the man was still deep in torpor.

“It would be too much to ask for you to wake, wouldn’t it?”

There is no response from the Anarch. LaCroix lets out a humourless chuckle.

Outside, a deep roar pierces the din of the battle. It rattles what’s left of Sebastian’s atrophied brain. In the flames, he can make out an enormous figure lumbering closer. It is chorused by exclamations from the hunters, terrified, shocked.

Not wanting to wait around for that thing, or for the hunters to see them, Sebastian throws Nines over his shoulders and pushes through the door.

A part of him wishes he had been blessed with Celerity like other Kindred, each second far too precious to allow any stumble or hesitation. His bare feet send lances of pain up his legs from every trodden stone and glass shard as he sprints across the courtyard. The roar of vitae drowning out the sounds around him. Nines’ limp body bounces and jerks unnaturally under Sebastian’s gait.

He hears a yell, a bullet whizzes past his head and slams into the limestone in front of him. Banking a hard left, Sebastian throws himself and Nines behind rock cover, losing his balance and hitting the ground with a grunt.

Sebastian rights his grip on Nines, cursing the man for letting himself get shot at a time like this. He catches the strong smell of rotting seaweed and ocean salt. As the screams of conflict begin to bleed in between the protective rock, Sebastian makes out the outline of a safety rail, and the jut of a large sewer pipe.

The wretched smell of sewage leaks into the air, assailing Sebastian’s deadened senses. As he stumbles down the stairs, holding onto the rusted handrail with a white-knuckled grip, the stench grows more overpowering.

“I’m half tempted to take my chances with the mess back there.” He mutters, watching as vaguely green sludge drips to the bay down below. Out in the distance, the yellow lights of a freighter glimmers brightly against pitch black water.

LaCroix pauses, letting the ocean breeze fall softly against his face. For just a moment, he’s back in Calais, the sounds and smells of the busy port emerging from ancient memory. The moment is soured by the wafting stench of the open sewer, and Sebastian is reminded who and where he is. How short on time they are.

With a final look out to that strange and bright freighter, Sebastian steps into the sewer pipe.

* * *

“You’re lucky it’s impossible for us to contract diseases, Anarch.” Sebastian growls, as he feels the squelch of liquid and solid sewage flow up around his feet.

If he were still alive, Sebastian doesn’t doubt he would have had to make several stops to vomit from the overpowering smell of the dark, dank sewers. The sound of his slashing steps echoes off the curved brick walls and ceiling. He stops irregularly, convinced he’d heard someone trailing behind him. He would whip his head around, eyes scanning the dark tunnel from which he had picked his way down.

When nothing would pounce from the darkness to give him his Final Death, Sebastian would readjust his grip on Nines and continue limping down the sewers, consulting the large maps posted at intersections.

A fog falls over Sebastian as an old rhythm makes its way into his walk, soon becoming a stomping march that sends grey rats skittering back into the shadows. He doesn’t know how far he’s walked, or for how long. All he knows is no amount of bribery or threats will convince him to traverse through these damned sewers ever again. He has no idea how the Nosferatu can stand it.

His shadow jitters across the uneven surface of the brick, cast by the pale green emergency lights dotting access points. Some are grated over, others are bare. He blearily notes that they must be under Downtown; he’d had those grates installed some months into his reign as Prince. Following the aftermath of an assassin who had managed to infiltrate Ventrue Tower from the sewers.

The Sheriff had dispatched of them before they could reach the penthouse. He vaguely wonders if his old friend is still alive. It would certainly be a shame for the old Nagloper to die in that attack, after all he’d been through.

Small rats are curled up on the lip of one circular entry and Sebastian’s stomach turns at the sight of them. Old aches from his time in the monastery make themselves known. Phantom reminders of weakness, and an awful, creeping sickness that made his bones ache and abdomen clench.

His head whips round to the sound of grunts and splashes shooting down the hallways in sharp echoes. Sebastian backs into one of the larger entryways, wincing as Nines’ back grinds against the top edge. The other man still doesn’t stir. Crouching, he allows the shadows to fall over him like a protective veil.

Barely a second after he had settled further back did the sound of movement grow stronger, until a pack of Tzimisce monsters run past Sebastian’s hiding place. He holds his breath, watching how their warped skin seems to almost bubble in places. Bunching up around their black eyes and stretching thin across massive mouths lined with rows of jagged teeth. Thick claws rasp and click against the stone. Growls and clicks emanate from the creatures, though nothing moves to indicate what made the sound.

Their skin was more red than beige now. A left over from the Society of Leopold. Sebastian hopes they suffered. Hopes they were ripped apart by the monstrosities before him, feeling every moment of agony and fear. They deserved nothing less, in his eyes.

Sebastian strains to listen as the splashing pack of creatures grows fainter, until they presumably turn a corner and vanish from his notice. The sewers fall silent once more, the quiet shuffling of its normal occupants picking back up again.

He listens between the drips of sewer water for any other patrols before creeping out of his hiding place, legs cramped from crouching with Nines on his back for so long. The fabric of his trousers cling to his legs and the cuts on his feet sting when they come into contact with the sewage once more. There’s nothing left for his clothes but to burn them, something Sebastian looks forward to.

It’s as he’s looking for Access Point C does he hear the padding footsteps of lumbering monstrosities nearby. Cursing, Sebastian hurriedly scans the surrounding area for somewhere to hide.

With a surge of desperation, he realises there’s nowhere for him to disappear. This stretch of sewer is hopelessly blank.

A growl shoots down the tunnel, reverberating in Sebastian’s skull. Ducking around, he sees a large, bipedal creature with a grossly engorged torso and thick, elongated arms. A fat head with pinprick black eyes glares down at him. An arm is raised, something green and glowing shooting from it.

Sebastian throws himself to the ground, clamping his mouth against the lukewarm sewer water. The hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck stand up on end as the attack sails over his head. It fizzles and dissipates when it hits the opposite wall, melting a portion of the bricks.

Without wasting time, Sebastian lurches up and runs. Somehow managing to not drop Nines. He reaches a junction, head whipping back and forth before he takes off down the left, with those two-legged head monsters chasing him down from the right.

Panicked thoughts chase after him like a spooked rabbit. Nines’ weight drags him _down_ , he’s going too _slow_ , he won’t escape. It’s Waterloo all over again. He’ll be ripped to shreds like the rest of them. He’s the Prince of Los Angeles, he doesn’t fucking deserve this.

Somehow, through some sort of miracle, Sebastian reaches the nearest ladder. He skids to a stop, one of the monsters shooting past him as he dodges its lunge. He climbs the ladder with one hand, the other keeping an iron grip on Nines’ white undershirt that had long since been discoloured during his stay at the Society of Leopold. 

The snarls follow Sebastian upwards, so painfully close they deafen him in their volume. He feels sharp fangs whisper over his ankle, biting into and tearing away a chunk of his trouser leg before falling down to the sewer. In a desperate burst of strength, Sebastian forces the manhole cover away from the opening. Wheezing, he drags the dead weight of his tired, aching limbs, and the limp form of Nines Rodriguez, up and out of the stinking hell that is the sewers.

He heaves Nines off his shoulders with a lurch. The man slumps to the dirty ground without a wince or a whisper. Sebastian scrambles for the manhole, the black eyes of the Tzimisce flesh-moulded catching the orange streetlights above, looking unnervingly like hellfire in those awful pits.

Blunt nails cling to the heavy metal cover and Sebastian throws it back over the opening. He braces over it as a heavy impact to the lid knocks him upwards. A loud, metallic clang rings out, followed by a dull splash and dog-like groaning.

As the noises fades, Sebastian lets himself fall slack against the manhole cover, the cold metal seeps into his cheek. The sky lightens with the warning of dawn, of burning up after surviving so much.

With a tired sigh, Sebastian heaves himself up to a standing position, limbs thick with exhaustion. He wobbles uncertainly, looking down the alleyway he’d found himself in. Even the barrel-fire to his left had been extinguished. A stray newspaper pushes its way across the ground, accompanied by cement dust and a plastic bag. Somewhere, a cat yowls in displeasure, and someone gets mugged.

Sebastian doesn’t have time to make it back to Ventrue Tower before sunup, and he’d be dead if he went back into the sewers. A red and blue neon sign casts flickering light down the very end of the alleyway. It belonged to a less-than-reputable dive bar known as the Exhaust Pipe. That is… until it was bought by a strictly nocturnal bartender, who’d renamed it something more fitting to his situation.

Sebastian looks down to the back door of the Last Round, frowning. The Anarchs hold very little love for the Camarilla, LaCroix especially. They wouldn’t offer him sanctuary under normal circumstances. But, as LaCroix looks back at Nines’ crumpled form, he schemes as well as any Ventrue can.

These aren’t normal circumstances; the Anarchs have been missing their leader for what must have been a week or so. Even if it was LaCroix who had brought him back, surely they would at least let him stay the night. Maybe even wash away the filth of the sewers. If they didn’t… well… Lacroix shakes his head, vision blurring. Anarchs are disgustingly honourable. They will.

With a practiced motion, LaCroix heaves Nines onto his shoulder once more, biting out another curse at how heavy the man is. Stumbling, feeling the oppressive heat of daytime begin to bite at his face, Sebastian crosses the alleyway.

* * *

If the windows hadn’t’ve been boarded up, Damsel would’ve seen who was coming, grabbed her Utica, and blown a hole in that snake’s pretty fucking face.

But the Last Round was still singed from that Sabbat attack last week; furniture was missing, and windows had yet to be replaced. Upstairs had only recently been repaired; making it, at the least, safe enough to occupy again. Not that anybody past her, Skelter, and Jack spent their time on the second floor. It was the last place anyone had seen Nines.

After the attack, the Downtown Anarchs had scattered. To havens, Elysiums; Skelter and Damsel made their way to Hollywood, crashing on Romero’s couch while things died down. Bashing in zombie brains had helped expel the excess energy that came with waiting.

When they returned to Downtown, the Last Round was a gutted, blackened shell of its former self. Damsel wasn’t a sentimental woman, you couldn’t be and survive the life of a Kindred, but it hurt to see the pub in such a state. She’d had to clean away too many ashed skeletons. Damsel was terrified by the possibility that she'd dumped Nines' remains in the dumpster with the rest.

She had looked for nights, in Downtown, Santa Monica, Hollywood, even Chinatown. She’d roved the sewers for any hint of her leader. It was only until Skelter bodily dragged her back to the Last Round did Damsel calm down enough to help with repairs, instead of running herself into the ground.

It didn’t make sense. Where the hell was Nines? Why hadn’t he appeared back at the Last Round? Surely he hadn’t gotten done in by some Sabbat raid. He couldn’t have. He was Nines. But nothing made sense about that raid. Why did they attack so suddenly? And with Molotovs of all things. Some Anarchs swear they'd even seen hunters among the attackers. But what kind of vampire hunter works with vampires?

There was nothing they could do but shore up their defences and wait. It didn’t matter how much Damsel roared and spat, Skelter would always talk her down in an even tone, like she was one of his soldiers or some shit. And it worked, too. Ass. He’d been keeping the Anarchs together during this anxious week, even now he was upstairs, going over something serious with Jack.

So, when a hammering at the back entrance jolts Damsel out of her thoughts, she has no time to grab her gun. She stomps over to the door, unlatching the lock and deadbolt, and throwing it open.

“We don’t have any food or cash, so fuck off or – Holy Jesus fucking shit.“ She shouts, voice reverberating off the walls.

The battered face of Prince LaCroix, lord of all capes, winces at the volume. He shifts a filthy arm, where Nines is hanging limply, with an arm looped around the Ventrue’s neck. Damsel’s nose wrinkles at the smell wafting off them.

Her focus zeroes in on Nines, who looks like he’s deep in torpor. The thick spattering of vitae dried on and around his neck hinting as to why her friend and leader was in such a state. His shirt is a mess, red and brown stains littering the once white fabric. His blue overshirt is missing entirely, as is his jewellery.

“Missing someone?” Croaks LaCroix, in that shitty English accent, even though he’s French. What the fuck.

Damsel’s eyes pin themselves to LaCroix as she leans back into the Last Round.

“ _Skelter_!” She hollers up the stairs. “Get your ass down here!”

“What?” Comes his muffled reply.

“ _Now_! It’s – It’s _Nines_!” Her voice cracks, and for once it doesn’t bother her.

“ _What._ ”

Heavy footsteps thump down the stairs, rattling the banister. Skelter swings round the doorway, meeting Damsel’s gaze. She nods, gesturing to the back entrance. He runs to where she stands, taking in the sight of LaCroix and Nines.

“Good, now that you’re both here, maybe we can – _oof_!“ LaCroix is cut off from his Cammy weaseling as Skelter sends a sharp shove to the man’s sternum, pushing him to the ground. Nines doesn’t fall with him, Skelter keeping a firm grip on his friend’s bicep.

“Damsel, get Nines upstairs. Then call Freya and tell her we need her help; we’ll pay in cash. Jack, lock the doors, make sure everything’s bolted up. Kick out anyone you don’t trust.” His voice is firm, giving orders with practiced ease.

“On it sir, commander, sir.” Jack replies, throwing in a mock salute and a smirk. Damsel loops Nines’ arm over her shoulders, smaller frame struggling under his weight for just a moment before shifting and dragging him up the stairs. 

As the sounds of the pub ring out behind him, Skelter looks down at the man splayed out on the filthy street. The Prince was so exhausted he hadn’t gotten back up from where he’d fallen, only barely able to prop himself up on scraped arms. There’s multiple cuts along his feet, crusted with some kind of dirt. An angry bruise blooms over his left eye socket. Skelter’s half tempted to get the fire axe and put the bastard out of his misery.

But despite everything, LaCroix could have ditched Nines for his own sake. Instead, he carried the unconscious man from God-know where, all while barefoot. Skelter doesn’t count himself as a very educated man, especially not in this age of universal teaching and the internet. But he knows a soldier when he sees one. A soldier he owes, political allegiances aside.

With a sigh, Skelter steps out of the Last Round, and heaves the Prince of LA to his feet, pulling him in and out of the burgeoning dawn.

“Listen here, you Cammy bootlicker.” He hisses in LaCroix’s ear. The man’s head lolls to the side, Skelter jostles him. “One wrong step, and your ass is out on the pavement, you hear?”

“Loud and clear, Anarch.” Replies LaCroix, voice thin and restrained.

Skelter nods, dragging him upstairs.

“We don’t have any free mattresses, so you’ll have to pick a booth.”

“Fine. Not like I expected anything better from an Anarch establishment.”

“And yet it’s the Anarch establishment you chose to bunker down in. So watch your tone.”

LaCroix’s jaw tenses as he grinds his teeth together. The pub stinks of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Heavy, loud music and neon lights assault his senses. But there’s a lull to the energy. Burn marks scar the foundations and there are markedly fewer people inside than Sebastian would have thought. By the front door, Smiling Jack of all people watches him limp up the stairs.

The second floor smells of fresh timber and wood stain. The bathroom doors are mismatched shades of green and there’s a row of booths that smell of new leather. Furthest from the windows, Damsel is crouched by Nines’ prone form. She turns to the sound of people walking up the stairs and sends Sebastian a nasty glare.

“What the fuck Skelter. Why didn’t you leave that fucker out to burn.”

“Because we owe him, Damsel.”

“We owe him a slow death.”

“Just - “ Skelter stops himself, rubbing his hands over his face tiredly. “Have you called Freya?”

“Yeah. She’ll be here next evening, it’s too late for her to make it here before sunup.” Damsel responds, refusing to look away from LaCroix. Sebastian meets her gaze with a blank face, but his eyes glitter like there’s something funny about this.

“Got something to say, Cammy?”

“Oh no, simply enjoying the situation around me.”

“We could throw you out the window, that’d be pretty fucking enjoyable.”

“You can certainly try, neonate.” The Ventrue bares his fangs in an animalistic grin.

She growls, surging upwards. Skelter pushes Damsel down by the shoulder before she can make good on the threat.

“No. Watch Nines and help Freya when she gets here tomorrow.” Skelter fixes a stern look on LaCroix. “You, go to that corner and stay there. You’re a guest. Act like it.”

“I thought I would be sleeping in a booth.” The Ventrue sniffs, frowning.

“That was before you started antagonising everyone here. Get to the corner.” Skelter points to the alcove closest to the window where the darts and arcade machines used to be. He’d been out earlier this evening driving their burnt husks to the dump.

The Prince sends one last sneer at Damsel before dragging himself to the aforementioned corner, slouching down and curling up by the dark wood panelling. Skelter sags, the beginning of stasis taking a hold on his already drained mind.

“So we’re keeping him.” Cracks Jack’s voice. Skelter turns to see the other Kindred leaning against the wall on the stairs, arms crossed.

“He brought Nines back. It counts for something, even if I don’t like the asshole.”

Jack shrugs. “Do what you gotta do man.” His expression turns almost thoughtful as he looks over to LaCroix’s hunched form. “Just hope this isn’t gonna bite us in the ass further down the line.”

Skelter sighs again, something he’s done a lot of, this week. “When Nines wakes up, I’m beating the shit out of him. I don’t know how he does this leader thing all the time.”

Jack barks out a laugh.

“You and me both, kid.”

As Jack makes his way down the stairs, Skelter looks down at his friend’s slack face. He looks like shit, but he’s back. He’s alright. Even if they have to let that snake stay here the night. Skelter tells himself he’ll kick the Ventrue out come dusk. And then properly sanitise the spot he’d slept on.

The guys stinks, like he’d just walked through the _sewers_ or something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been my longest chapter yet lmao, hope it was fun to read  
> man, i know i said there might be a gap, but i finally finished the game and was Struck by inspiration to write this, and thank you to all the kind people commenting ;w; it's so nice to read what people enjoyed, youse are great!  
> skelter,, poor skelter lmao. he's doing his best  
> i really have nines unconscious A Lot in this fic lmao, he's snoozin


	5. Rouse, Regroup, Retaliate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I see the bad moon arising  
> I see trouble on the way  
> I see earthquakes and lightnin'  
> I see bad times today  
> \- Bad Moon Rising, Creedence Clearwater Revival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> specific warning for this chapter: references to torture

Consciousness comes to Nines slowly; something he’s unfortunately become used to in recent days. But instead of the droning light bulb and distant, hollow sounds of marching footsteps, Nines smells burnt wood and fresh paint. Familiar voices speak around him, ones that don’t set his dead instincts on edge.

_Did they make it?_ Nines remembers crouching in that cavern, a vicious fight between the hunters and Sabbat monsters raging around him. LaCroix had turned to look behind them, then suddenly ducked. There was an overwhelming feeling of pain and shock before the darkness of torpor took him over.

An ache in his neck sends shooting pains to his head and shoulders. He groans, feeling a wooden floor beneath him. He cracks his eyes open to see wooden beams above, softly illuminated from the streetlights outside.

He knows this ceiling, knows these smells. Nines drags himself to a sitting position and sees the faces of Damsel, Skelter, and Jack staring back at him. He’s convinced this is some kind of dream until Damsel slams into him, gripping Nines in a tight hug around his shoulders.

“Thank fuck you’re awake. Freya said you might take longer because the wound hasn’t fully healed, and she was worried you’d go into a Frenzy anyways, and I stayed up as long as I could to watch you, but the day came and all we could do was wait, and-“

Damsel’s rambling is cut off by Skelter’s voice brought low and soothing as he guides her away from Nines.

“Don’t suffocate the man, he just woke up.”

“Fuck off.” She sniffs. But there’s no bite to it, she slouches against the wall beside Skelter as another woman takes her place.

“Good evening, mister Rodriguez is it? Would you prefer Nines?” She asks, accent distinctly non-American. Somewhere European, perhaps.

“Nines is fine.”

The woman nods, rummaging through an old doctor’s bag made from well-kept leather.

“I’m Freya, Nines, and I was called in to take a look at you.” The way she talks reminds Nines of medical staff characters from the telenovelas he’d sometimes indulge in. “You suffered a massive laceration to your neck. Our guest tells me it was from a high-calibre rifle.” Freya motions to the men’s restroom for emphasis. Nines winces when he turns to look, a surge of pain crashing over him. “And, as you can tell, it hasn’t fully healed yet.”

Nines tries not to probe the wound. “How bad is it?”

Freya begins to lean over, penlight in hand. A high pitched ringing fills Nines’ ears. In that moment he's no longer on the second floor of the Last Round, but back in that cement room with leather straps holding him prone and a sneering inquisitor looking down at him. Nines doesn’t feel in the pain in his neck and hands as he scrambles away, back slamming into the wall. He feels a red-hot iron digging into the muscles of his joints. It burns as bad as it did then.

“-ines!”

Distantly he hears voices pierce the din. Nines blinks furiously. If he’d been alive, he would have been hyperventilating; heartbeat drowning out all other sounds. But all he can do is sit there, frozen in silence.

“Nines!” Skelter’s face comes into focus. His voice, startling in its clarity, rips Nines from the past. A redundant gasp jumps out of him as Skelter puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You back with us?”

Nines stares at Skelter, struggling to parse the question. He blinks again, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Yeah.” He chokes out, swallowing a mouthful of ash. “I’m here.”

Skelter kneels down so his eyes are level with Nines’. Damsel stands behind him, clenching her jaw as she looks down at Nines. He catches Freya in his peripheral vision, expression professionally neutral, gauging his reactions.

“What’d you see? What happened?”

Nines rubs his face with both hands, focusing on the sensation in an attempt to ground himself. His arms burn.

“I was kept under this monastery, owned by some hunter sect calling themselves the Society of Leopold. You ever heard of them?” Nines sees Skelter and Damsel shake their heads. Jack frowns where he leans beside the restroom doors. “They wanted information: Kindred numbers, Anarch hideouts, shit like that.” He feels his own hands rub robotically against his arms, and forces them to stop. “This hunter, De Mer, she got creative with a soldering iron.”

Skelter grimaces and looks down. Damsel’s face twists into a snarl.

“Fucking monsters.” She growls under her breath.

Freya returns into his field of vision, telegraphing her movements.

“I’ll try not to trigger another episode, Nines.” She says calmly, warm tone holding an underlying firmness. “As much as you’d possibly prefer to be left alone, I want to make sure there aren’t any lingering effects from your torpor, and that the wound is healing well.”

Nines nods slowly, uncurling his clenched fists. There’s splinters in his palms he’ll have to pick out later. For now, Nines does his best to choke down the frustrating panic as Freya checks him over with all the efficiency of an experienced nurse.

After what feels like an eternity, Freya ends her examination by handing Nines a blue blood pack. His jaw tingles with the memory of salivation as he takes the full bag in hand.

“The wound should close up nicely after you’ve consumed it all.” She says, packing up her doctor’s bag. “And don’t be afraid to ask for another, I brought plenty over.” The faint sound of glass vials clinking together and metal instruments shifting about become muffled when she does up the clasp.

“Where’s LaCroix?”

Jack motions to the bathroom with his head. “His highness is washing up. Smells like shit.”

Nines frowns at the green door, wondering how the hell the other Kindred had managed to escape with his heavy corpse in tow.

* * *

The Welsh Thinblood, Freya, checks over Sebastian with a detached air, being none too gentle as she examines him. He almost chokes as she depresses his tongue to check the state of his mouth, muttering something about Ventrue Kindred’s mouths rotting if they consumed too much bad blood. The sharp invasion of the clamp and the feeding tube feels too real in that moment. His oesophagus spasms around empty space. Sebastian clenches his fists with enough force to break the skin in an attempt to keep the panic at bay. Numbly, he answers Damsel's occasional probing question, ignoring the chills aching in his extremities. 

Eventually Freya hands him two blue blood packs, leaving Sebastian to his own devices. Sebastian feels someone’s gaze on him as he slowly consumes the packs, but he was more intent on relishing the sweetness of good blood than engaging in petty stare downs.

There's a lull in the action; Sebastian having drained the packs and Nines having yet to awaken. Skelter climbs the stairs, nodding to Jack before casting a long look at Sebastian. Like he was thinking of when to throw him out. Sebastian would certainly fit in with the bums outside; caked in blood and sewage, smelling like a week-old corpse. 

Instead of kicking him out just yet, Skelter turns his attention to Nines and keeps it there. Him and Damsel quietly murmur between each other. The only person not looking at the Anarch leader was Smiling Jack. Who, unfortunately, decided to fix his gaze on Sebastian, while puffing his way through a cigar. Resting his hand on one knee and stretching the other leg out in front of him, Sebastian returns the look.

Jack huffs a laugh through his nose, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

“Y’look like shit.”

“Difficult not to when one walks through the sewers.” Sebastian replies flatly.

Jack raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, Jack exhales a mouthful of smoke and looks over Sebastian with an expression he’s never seen on the Anarch. Analytical, like he’s seeing Sebastian for the first time. It reminds him far too much of De Mer. With a final drag of his cigar, Jack jerks his head to the restroom door beside him.

“You can clean yourself up, then. No point in making the bar stink any worse.”

The appraising air around Jack dissipates as he casts his attention to Nines’ prone form. Sebastian shrugs, leaning against the wall to support himself as he stood. The blue blood had done much to recover his strength; but the aching sickness from what the hunters forced him to consume still pulses in his muscles.

Sebastian’s hands feel clammy, even if they’ve been bone dry since the nineteenth century. He clings to the cool porcelain in an attempt to ground himself. The water from the rusted faucet hisses out, spitting droplets onto his stained dress shirt. He’d managed to clean the worst of the blood and human excrement off his body, but the clothes were ruined.

Lord, what Sebastian wouldn’t give for a hot shower or a long bath. He was distinctly aware of the dried sewage clinging to his clothes, dried chunks rasping against his skin. His scalp prickles from going a week without washing.

There’s a rise in volume outside, Sebastian catches someone yelling Nines’ name. It quiets down before he can decide to poke his head out the door. Once more, Sebastian washes his arms, hands, and face in an attempt to clean away the grit that clings to him. There's no soap in the dispenser and his fingernails are blackened by the vitae caught beneath them. No matter how hard he tries, it refuses to be scraped out.

He scrubs at his hair to distract himself from the feeling of uncleanliness. This isn’t the first time he was exhausted and crusted in filth. Old memories of the Russian and Belgian campaigns surfacing as he ducks his head underneath the faucet. Water drips down Sebastian’s nose as he watches brown and red swirl together down the sink.

He shakes his hair in an attempt to dry it before smoothing it back. A few errant strands fall against his forehead no matter how many times he pushes them back. Sebastian sighs, he can’t remain in the toilet forever, and he has a feeling he’ll soon be overstaying his welcome.

By the sounds of it, Rodriguez is awake; it’s only polite to say goodbye before he leaves. Whatever camaraderie they shared over their mutual suffering was over now. It’s time to move on and pick up the pieces. 

* * *

Eight days. He was there for eight fucking days, and it felt like a lifetime had passed.

Damsel and Skelter take turns filling Nines in on what happened when he was gone. The Last Round almost burned down, the LA Anarchs were still scattered and waiting for news on Nines. Hollywood was on lockdown: Sabbat activity at an all-time high in the area. Strauss was acting Prince-regent and had remained relatively quiet the entire time, something neither Damsel nor Skelter saw as good news.

It’s as Nines opens his mouth to ask where they got the money to fix up the bar, when the door for the men’s bathroom opens. LaCroix limps out, hair damp with loose strands falling over his forehead.

There’s less of a sickly pallor to his skin, more flushed from a recent feed. His clothes are a mess, grey dress shirt stained with a myriad of colours ranging from blood red to shit brown. Nines’ nose scrunches at the smell coming off of him.

“Where the hell did you crawl out of?” He says. LaCroix frowns at him.

“The sewers. Carrying your heavy arse the entire way because you had to go and get shot.” He sneers, crossing his arms in front of him.

“So sorry to inconvenience you. Next time a high calibre rifle rips out half my neck, I’ll just get better.” Nines drawls flatly, staring back up at LaCroix.

They stare at each other, caught in a deadlock. Then Nines chuckles, and LaCroix huffs out a laugh that shakes his shoulders, and the tense mood dissipates. The other occupants of the Last Round watch this with varying levels of bewilderment. Damsel’s eyes flick between the two men with increasing apprehension.

“What the hell happened between you two?” She peers at LaCroix with no small amount of disdain.

“It’s none of your concern Anarch,” remarks LaCroix. He makes for the exit. “Now, if you would excuse me, I must return to my own sect.”

“You sure about that?” Says Jack, watching LaCroix’s back tense.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jack just means that you were replaced pretty damn fast.” Skelter replies, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Strauss didn’t waste much time looking for you.”

LaCroix’s face suddenly splits into a stormy frown.

“ _What._ ” He hisses, hands falling to his sides and clenching into fists.

“He’s Prince-regent now.” Skelter says, watching LaCroix intently. “Did a press release and everything about moving on from tragedy.”

LaCroix’s face twitches, nostrils flaring. 

“ _Trahison, putain de poignard dans le dos._ ” Lacroix mutters darkly. Nines doesn’t understand a word of it, but it hardly sounds pleasant. His head snaps to the side and he stomps down the stairs.

“What the fuck, LaCroix, where’re you going?” Nines calls after him.

“Sorting out a rat problem.” He growls, head disappearing down the stairs.

“Oho, the Prince is _pissed_.” Cackles Jack “Haven’t heard him speak French before; sounded dirty. Think we can get him to teach us a couple nineteenth century curses?”

Nines makes to stand, biting down the lingering pain from his neck. A firm hand keeps him from rising.

“Best to leave the guy to sort out his own business. We’ve got no place in Camarilla squabbles.” Says Skelter, eyes fixed on the stairwell.

“Yeah man,” Damsel pipes in. “And you’ve never cared for any Cammy, least of all LaCroix. What’s with the sudden change of heart?” She sounds strangely suspicious. Nines frowns.

“It’s best if you don’t strain yourself either, Nines.” Remarks Freya, before he can retort.

There’s the sound of a door being slammed shut as the pub falls silent once more.

“Listen, Nines.” Skelter starts, rubbing his neck. “I didn’t want to bring it up around the cape, but we got something in the mail, a day or so before you came back to us.”

Nines turns to Skelter.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s… it’s rough.” Skelter turns back to Jack. They share a look, before both men face Nines. “And I have to admit it’s probably why I’m so surprised to see you here in one piece.”

Nines feels a chill settle in his gut, tensing as the ghost of adrenaline leaks into his system.

“Skelter, what was on that tape?”

* * *

Angry fleas jitter underneath Sebastian’s skin as he marches through Downtown. Of all the backstabbing, two faced - that bastard was on the phone with him when it happened. His vitae boils. This was all his plan; working with the hunters to destabilise both factions, allowing Strauss to swoop in and become the hero of LA. Sebastian had been too lenient with the Tremere, too trusting.

Sebastian barely registers the stares from passing mortals as he reaches Ventrue Tower, the dull swish of the automatic doors greeting him as he entered.

He was aware of the looks Strauss gave him when the Tremere thought he wasn’t paying attention. Knew what Strauss said behind closed doors. But Sebastian never thought Strauss would go so far as to consort with the Society of Leopold to get what he wanted. How dare he. _How dare he._

A nasally voice jolts Sebastian out of his thoughts.

“Uh, sir? Sir! Sorry, I can’t let you up the elevator!” That sounds nothing like his Chief of Security. Turning on his heel, Sebastian rushes back.

“Who the hell are you?” He demands. A larger man, who Sebastian does not recognise, sits at the front desk. “What happened to Lloyd.”

“Oh uh, Lloyd doesn’t work here any more on account of being smushed by a falling piece of debris from that terrorist attack last week. It was really quite a tragedy, his wife-“

“Yes, right. Who are you.”

“Well I’m Officer Chunk, I’m the Chief of Security here at Ventrue Tower while mister Strauss organises repairs. Y’know this is a dangerous job and I take it very seriously, so…” The man begins to ramble about the honour of night-shift security work, with food as some kind of metaphor. LaCroix stares on, vaguely confused. Where the hell do people like this come from?

“… and sure, that’s why you never get between a man and his bear claw, but also between a man and _justice_.”

LaCroix leans against the desk, suddenly very tired. He cradles his head in his hands.

“Just... let me up to my office. Please.”

Chunk looks at LaCroix, taking in the smell, bloodied clothes, and pale complexion. “Uh, sorry sir, but I don’t think you work here. Not to assume or anything. Do you need an ambulance? Got anyone I could call?”

“Listen -“ Sebastian starts, gritting his teeth. He’s cut off by an oily voice that slinks its way around him.

“I have it settled from here, mister Norris.” Says Strauss. Sebastian turns to face him, careful not to move so quickly as to appear desperate. The Tremere Elder stands with his hands behind his back, looming over Sebastian. The only change in his expression being a twitch in his eyebrows when he sees Sebastian’s face.

“Mister LaCroix. This is certainly a surprise.” He says flatly.

“Strauss.”

“Why don’t we continue this conversation in a less… _public_ venue, hm?” Strauss motions to Chunk with a nod.

Sebastian frowns, nerves on edge.

“Why? So you can carry out what those hunters you sent couldn’t follow through with, and kill me? Finally claim the title you’ve been chasing?” His voice rings out in the atrium.

Strauss frowns.

"Do not accuse me of colluding with the _hunters_ of all people. I was the only Kindred to step up and deal with the damages, LaCroix. You cannot damn me for wishing to help Camarilla society move on from such a devastating attack.” He says slowly, tone insulted, though Sebastian isn’t too sure how much of it is a farce.

Strauss lets out a frustrated sigh as LaCroix continues to eye him suspiciously.

“You’re making a spectacle of yourself, LaCroix.” His voice is sharp with disdain. “I am offering the luxury of privacy considering the current state of your appearance.” Behind the red lenses, Strauss’ eyes flick over Sebastian’s form. A wall of embarrassment slams into him when he realises he’d marched into Ventrue Tower looking like he’d crawled through the sewers – which he had.

Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, Sebastian straightens.

“After you, then, Prince-regent Strauss.”

" _Acting_ Prince-regent, if you will."

The walk to the Chantry takes longer than Sebastian remembers, picking his way over broken bottles and the occasional hypodermic needle. They don’t pose the same threat to him as they do mortals, but Sebastian would rather avoid more pain at this time.

“Why is there some prattling fool, named _Chunk_ of all things, minding my front desk?” He grumbles to Strauss, who strides on unbothered.

“He’s on loan from the Voerman sisters, LaCroix, and he’s done a fine job so far.” Strauss responds, keeping his gaze on the path in front of him.

Sebastian pinches his nose, feeling tension build up behind his eyes. Somewhere on the road a car alarm goes off and someone yells.

“I have to admit I did not expect you to return, for lack of a better term, alive.”

“So you’ve said.”

There’s a halt to the conversation, Sebastian feels Strauss’ gaze flick over to him. Glass shatters in a passing alleyway.

“Regardless of what you’ve no doubt been assuming, I only took the seat of Prince-regent in your stead because no one else could. The Camarilla need to recover quickly considering the recent increase in Sabbat aggression. I will happily step down once you are able to reclaim your title.”

While Strauss sounds less than pleased at the thought of giving up the position, it does ease some of his suspicions. He nods at Strauss, who had been staring expectantly at Sebastian.

When they finally reach the gothic apartments of the chantry, two familiar Kindred stand guard by the door. They were the Toreador and Ventrue neonates the Sheriff had taken under his wing as Hounds a month or so ago. Sebastian doesn’t recall their names. They straighten when he and Strauss near.

One of them, the Toreador with bright red box-dye hair, does a double take when he sees Sebastian. As Sebastian steps into the chantry, he catches a hushed _was that LaCroix?_ before the door closes.

He follows Strauss into the winding hallway, thick rugs muffling any sound as they walk. Pale candlelight flickers in sconces at regular intervals along the hallway, casting small, dancing shadows against the red walls. Faint conversations of other Tremere Kindred can be heard behind closed doors.

Strauss leads him to the Tremere library. This is only the third time he’s been in this room; most meetings being held in his office in Ventrue Tower. But considering the fact that it was currently out of use, the chantry would have to do. Large curtains hang from the ceiling down to the wood floor.

A classical painting depicting Cain killing Abel hangs above a marble fireplace. Orange flames illuminate massive bookshelves lining the walls and blue chesterfield couches in the centre. Sebastian picks out some tomes in French, Dutch, Romanian, Mandarin, and English, among other languages. Some have no titles; some are bound in human skin.

Strauss gets straight to business, neglecting to offer Sebastian a seat.

"There was a coordinated attack against the Last Round and Ventrue Tower, both buildings ended up in flames. The penthouse level of Ventrue Tower has been completely destroyed, we believe an explosive charge was used to incapacitate you and the Sheriff."

"Where is the Sheriff?"

"Gone. I don't know if he escaped, if he was captured, or if he even survived the attack." 

Sebastian nods, clenching his jaw. It would certainly be a waste of a good Sheriff if Qedusizi died to a hunter attack. A silence falls over the room before Strauss starts up again.

"Forgive my asking, but where did you end up? How on earth did you escape?" 

Sebastian sighs, crossing his arms as he thinks back to those cement hallways.

“The hunters belonging to the Society of Leopold had kept both myself and Nines Rodriguez in a cell under some monastery overlooking the coast. We were held and interrogated for a number of days until the Sabbat attacked, causing enough chaos for us to escape.

"We got out through the sewers and were pursued by Tzimisce monsters in the final stretch. We emerged just outside the Last Round and stayed the night before I moved to Ventrue Tower."

Strauss nods as he listens to the account.

"How many do you think attacked the monastery?"

"Hundreds; Belial, head-hunters, spiders, I saw something that could have been a vozhd. No Kindred, just those monsters." 

The sheer amount of magical prowess needed to create and maintain that many monsters meant either the Sabbat had one very powerful Tzimisce, or multiple working in conjunction with each other. Strauss seems to realise this, Sebastian sees the unease in the tensing of his shoulders and barely-there frown. 

“It must be more than a coincidence, then, that the Sabbat attacked the monastery as the Elizabeth Dane came into port.”

“The Elizabeth Dane?” The name was familiar.

“Rumours had been spread, a week or so ago, about a strange Ankaran sarcophagus on a cargo ship due to make port in Los Angeles. It was to find its place in the Museum of Natural History."

Strauss walks to one of the couches and picks up a newspaper of the LA Sun with today’s date. "It docked without issue, but the sarcophagus never made it to its final destination." He peers down at the front page once more before handing it to Sebastian.

**BANE OF THE ELIZABETH DANE**

BLOODY MASSACRE OF ENTIRE CREW! ARCHAELOGICAL ARTEFACT STOLEN!

A large, black and white image of a gruesome murder scene takes up half the front page, a small synopsis of the story listed below.

"You believe the Sabbat had something to do with this." Sebastian remarks, skimming over the columns.

"The sarcophagus isn't believed to hold a mortal corpse, but rather an Antediluvian." 

"And the rising of an ancient one is considered a portent of Gehenna, something the Sabbat wish to prevent." Sebastian mutters.

"I believe the Sabbat needed the Anarchs and Camarilla out of the way for whatever is being planned."

Sebastian takes one last look at the newspaper before folding it up and placing it on the coffee table.

"We need to investigate the Elizabeth Dane, perhaps there's a lead we could follow."

Strauss nods. "I'll send Jo and Octavian over-"

Sebastian shakes his head. The Hounds would be too inexperienced, he doesn't trust them not to alert the local authorities if they were sent.

"No, I want them to keep guard over the chantry. Without the Sheriff the Camarilla are much less capable of defending themselves. I'll investigate the Dane myself. Send word out to the other primogens that I've returned, then meet me in front of the Last Round in an hour."

Strauss frowns at Sebastian, unsure as to what he's planning.

"They targeted both our factions for a reason, and I fear these conflicts I've been hearing about in Hollywood will only escalate as time goes on. We'd be stronger working together than doing what the Sabbat would want, and tear each other apart trying to sort this out."

Strauss sighs, agreeing to carry out Sebastian's orders. The thick, stain-glass doors creak closed behind Sebastian as he leaves the room. 

* * *

Sebastian steps out of the chantry, ignoring the Hounds as he flags down a taxi. _Seriously, is that LaCroix?_

“Where to?” Asks the cabbie. A heavy presence fills Sebastian’s mind as he tells them the street address. Orange streetlights dance across Sebastian’s face as they drive. Skyscrapers bow down to duplexes and small estates before the taxi rolls to a stop on his road. Sebastian mutters his thanks and steps out of the car.

He walks down the street, hoping none of his neighbours see him and call the police, considering the state of his clothing. His haven, an angular white and grey mansion, sits undisturbed from the chaos of the week. Sebastian huffs a sigh of relief when the spare key is still tucked away under a nearby rock.

The building is empty, motes of dust swirling under high ceilings as he enters for the first time in eight days. The paintings he brought over from New York are covered in dust and the air smells stale from no circulation. Sebastian will have someone clean it, eventually. For now, he wants to feel clean himself. 

He showers until the blistering hot water runs cold, scrubbing himself with enough ferocity to hurt. The Sheriff is missing, possibly dead. Neither Strauss nor the Hounds could be trusted fully. He had to figure out a way to get the Anarchs to work with him. The Sabbat are still at large. Too much to do, too little time to do it. His desert grows with each passing second.

Sebastian would’ve stayed in longer if he hadn’t agreed to meet Strauss at the Last Round in an hour. His ruined clothes are thrown into a garbage bag and forgotten about as he chooses a new outfit from his step-in closet.

Sebastian stares at the rows of black and grey before his eyes fix on a wine-red turtleneck. It’s not something he wears out, choosing to throw it when he can do work in the privacy of his haven.

He pauses, feeling the softness of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Sebastian pulls it on slowly, choosing appropriate jacket, shoes, and trousers to match.

He knows the mental scars from his time at the monastery will linger, that they’re far too fresh for him to be truly functional right now.

Sebastian styles his hair with gel and applies cologne to his neck. His reflection shows a sharp man with the wealth and power to match.

Just because he is traumatised, doesn’t mean he has to look it.

He collects a spare flip-phone, pistol, and clip of bank notes before calling a taxi. There was no time for weakness, he had work to do. Thoughtlessly, Sebastian rubs the soft fabric between his fingers during the cab ride. He refuses to acknowledge how grounding the motion is, a Prince should be above such comforts.

* * *

Nines had heard of out of body experiences; there were drugs and meditations and shit that Kine and Kindred alike had reported being capable of causing it. He thinks he's experiencing some version of it, watching himself be tortured from the flickering bar TV.

He never realised how much he'd grimaced, didn't know he'd cried bloody tears as De Mer broke his fingers one by one. His nails dig into the junction of his elbow. Damsel watches his hand and calls out Skelter's name. When Skelter turns from intently watching to screen, Damsel holds his gaze and shakes her head slowly.

Skelter frowns before he sees Nines. Skelter blanches and grabs the shitty remote that doesn't work half the time. 

With that muffled pop, the TV turns off and Nines on the tape is cut off mid-scream. Nines feels their eyes on him. They mean well, but it makes his skin prickle with irritation to feel so much pity directed at him. 

"There was an address that came up at the end of the tape. 609 King's Way, some mansion up in the Hollywood hills. I thought it was where you were being held, but now? I don't know."

"Why'd you hide this from me Skelter, what the fuck." Damsel sounds wounded, and she spits fire when she's hurt. 

"Because you would've gone off the rails trying to storm the place and find Nines. I had no idea what happened to Nines, or if this was a trap. Nothing." Skelter's tone takes a desperate edge as the stress of the past eight days leaches into his demeanor.

"Is that worse than abandoning Nines you fucking coward? Don't you trust me?"

Nines straightens and gets between the two Anarchs before a fight breaks out.

"Hey, hey. Easy you two." He pushes them back. "It's done, I'm here. We're moving on from this. Skelter was making the best of a bad situation, Damsel. And Damsel's been here long enough that we can trust her to be rational, Skelter." His head swivels at the Gangrel and Brujah as they step down. Nines sighs, lowering his hands.

A sharp knock at the front door makes the inhabitants of the Last Round jump.

"What the hell is it now?" Damsel grumbles.

Jack peers through the cracks of a plywood board.

"It's our favourite Prince and he's brought company."

"They got weapons on them?" Grunts Nines, heading to the front door, handgun in hand.

"No open carry, but you never know what they've got squirreled away in those big jackets of theirs."

Damsel and Skelter move to either side of Nines, bracketing the door, knives drawn. They share looks and nod. Nines cracks the door open, angling his gun behind him.

LaCroix's face stares back. Eyes flicking over Nines' neck, where the wound had been. He looks better; wearing new, expensive clothes with expensive cologne wafting off of him. The red turtleneck is new, Nines doesn't think he's ever seen LaCroix wear colour before.

"Rodriguez."

"LaCroix."

"I apologise for the intrusion, but this is important. May we come in?"

Nines looks up to see a pair of neonates and Strauss. None of them seem intent on unleashing thaumatergic monsters, or gunfire, onto the Last Round. Slowly, Nines opens the door, holstering his gun. Damsel and Skelter remain tense, watching the Camarilla Kindred enter. Jack lights a cigar in the corner.

LaCroix steps in and hands Nines a copy of the LA Sun, Nines frowns as he takes it and reads the headline.

"I think this goes deeper than ambitious hunters and happenstance." Says the Ventrue. "Something is brewing, and our factions are caught in the middle of it. I think the only way to survive this, is if we work together."

Nines freezes, clenching the paper. He has an idea where this is going. 

"So, mister Rodriguez, how willing are you to form an alliance with me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAA this took effort to get out lmao, so many characters, so much plot to establish, also was working on my other fic Diviner Bureaucrat, and figuring out how exactly i want to plot to go this and man,,,, this thing is shaping up to be pretty long, so strap in for a Story lmao
> 
> from the wiki, a Sheriff can appoint Hounds to assist them, and Jo and Octavian are modelled after the male toreador and ventrue models, got the idea for them from when two other Kindred stake the pc and their sire in the opening scene, it always seems to be the toreador and ventrue models they use if you choose neither clan  
> also turns out Skelter might a Gangrel? i might've written him too analytical/calm for a brujah but the wiki says his ingame code is gangrel, so that's what i'll stick with  
> Officer Chunk's voice actor is called Daran Norris, and because the psychological toll of having to write Strauss even say the word 'chunk' was too great, i used his surname  
> Trahison, putain de poignard dans le dos - Betrayal/treachery, fucking stabbed in the back
> 
> EDIT: changed the address from 2 Mulholland Drive to 609 King's Way, which is the address Isaac gives you ingame


	6. The Mary Celeste's Gruesome Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm all used up pretty boy  
> Over and over again, my nail colours are wearing off  
> See my hands, pretty boy  
> What do they tell you?  
> \- Bag of Bones, Mitski

“What the _fuck_ did he just say?”

“Ha! That time in the sewers must’ve done something funny to your head, LaCroix.”

“Nines you can’t actually be considering this.”

The Last Round erupts into shouts and Nines isn’t exactly surprised. If the Prince had asked to form an alliance eight days ago, Nines wouldn’t have hesitated to throw him out by the collar of his fancy suit.

But that was then. They stare at each other and Nines finds he can’t dredge up any kind of righteous anger or hatred towards LaCroix. They’d gone through too much together to return to the normal cat and dog routine – that dynamic had long since been ripped away by long nights in a small, concrete room.

LaCroix seems to understand this. He’s staring up at Nines, waiting for a response.

“We’ll talk upstairs.” Says Nines, jerking his head to the back of the room. LaCroix nods and Nines swears he sees his shoulders relax.

“Lead the way.”

Nines ignores Damsel and Skelter’s loud protests. LaCroix looks behind him and tells the three Camarilla Kindred with him to wait downstairs. None of them look happy.

The top floor is quiet in its privacy, the faint sounds of outside traffic their only companion. The floorboards creak underneath Nines as he shifts from one foot to the next, arms crossed.

“I wouldn’t be offering an alliance if I didn’t feel it wasn’t necessary.” LaCroix says, breaking the tense silence.

“Let’s hear it then.”

“I have reason to believe the Sabbat are planning something, and it may be the reason for our… stay in the monastery.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how much you’re aware of, but the Sabbat coordinated with the hunters to attack both our factions. Ventrue Tower was blown up the same night the Last Round was attacked.”

LaCroix begins to pace, eyes focusing on the floor as he talks.

“Both of us ended up in the same monastery, which was also attacked by the Sabbat. If they had succeeded, then both us and the largest hunter sect in the area would have been wiped out in that night. Los Angeles would be left unguarded: our factions leaderless and fractured. It would be easy for the Sabbat to finally take the territory they’ve been vying for.”

“The Anarchs don’t have a leader,” Nines interjects, crossing his arms. LaCroix fixes Nines with a sharp look.

“We both know that’s not the case, Rodriguez.” He retorts, voice steely. “Just about every Anarch in Los Angeles looks to you for leadership, don’t embarrass them by denying it.”

Nines frowns but doesn’t argue further. Instead, he sighs, holding up the paper LaCroix had handed him. “So what’s with the newspaper, what’s so important about the murders?”

“During our captivity, a cargo ship named the Elizabeth Dane made its way into port. It was carrying an archaeological artefact, the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Rumours have lead some to believe it holds an Antideluvian.”

Nines tenses. He isn’t one to put much stock in Gehenna, but that kind of thing holds weight.

“And the Sabbat believed those rumours?”

“I don’t know where they heard it from, but it was obviously reliable enough for them to mount attacks on both the Anarchs and the Camarilla in tandem with hunters; all while slaughtering an entire ship’s crew.”

Nines looks at the picture on the front page. The black and white photo does little in revealing details, but it looked like the journalist had taken it before anyone could clean up all the blood. The Sabbat weren’t subtle.

“So what are you suggesting? We work together to get back at them? Push back against the Sabbat before they take over LA completely?”

“That and finding out if the Ankaran Sarcophagus truly does contain the body of an Antideluvian.”

Nines rolls his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. He lets the silence settle around them once more. There’s no sound coming from downstairs; Nines has a feeling they’re listening in on their conversation.

“I’m not going to lie and say the prospect of beating the shit out of the Sabbat doesn’t sound fucking appealing right now.” His arms twinge. Nines steps closer to LaCroix, looming over him. “But I need a guarantee that the Anarchs aren’t going to be doing all the work, while the Camarilla sends nasty glares and strongly worded emails from the sidelines.”

Nines leans down, so their faces are close. “I need to know I can count on you to get your hands dirty.” He growls.

They stare at each other, watching every movement. LaCroix looks up at Nines with a clenched jaw, muscles jumping along the sides of his face.

“If you want proof that I am willing to do the work needed to rid Los Angeles of the Sabbat,” he starts, voice low and steady. “Then come with me to investigate the Elizabeth Dane. We need all the information we can get, and it’s the best place to start.”

Nines’ eyes flick over LaCroix. He doesn’t think himself the most insightful Kindred, but he’s yet to feel Presence or Dominate creep into the borders of his mind. Whatever LaCroix’s true intentions, he’s playing it straight so far.

“Alight then. We’ll see how this goes, then I’ll make my choice.”

“Fair enough." LaCroix straightens his already pristine lapels. "I’d recommend we leave sooner rather than later, what with sunrise being in about five hours.”

They make their way down the stairs and Damsel immediately strides over to Nines.

“Please tell me we’re gonna kick these capes to the curb.”

“Sorry, Damsel, we’re heading out.”

Damsel frowns.

“What?”

“LaCroix and I are going to the port, we’re checking out some ship the Sabbat slaughtered an entire crew on.”

“Nines-“

“If I’m not back in, what, three hours?” Nines looks back to LaCroix, who nods. “Then something’s gone wrong.”

Skelter joins Nines and Damsel, working out a backup plan in case anything went wrong. Most of the time was spent convincing Damsel he was going to be fine. Neither seem very happy with letting him go just yet, especially with LaCroix in tow. But this is something Nines feels he has to do. The Camarilla reconvene to talk under hushed breaths that Nines can’t make out as he talks with his Anarchs.

“Are you ready?” Asks LaCroix, arms folding over his chest. Nines looks up to see Strauss and the Hounds leaving through the front door – possibly returning to the chantry. Nines nods.

"Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Jack blows out a mouthful of smoke as he watches the two leaders hail a cab and disappear into the evening traffic. The streetlight peeks in through the cracks in the plywood, casting a strip of orange across his face.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Skelter.” Murmurs Damsel. She’s rifling through the fridge, grabbing a bloodpack with more force than necessary. “We’re just gonna let him go with some cape to that ship? I should’ve gone with him.”

She gulps down half the contents of the pack in one go.

“Nines can handle himself.” Responds Skelter, he holds his hand out and Damsel throws the pack to him. “Besides, if LaCroix decided to do him in, he would’ve already.”

Skelter downs the rest of the pack before throwing it in the sink. Vandal usually gives them a discount if they keep the bags.

“’S not Frenchie I’m worried is gonna hurt Nines. There could be a trap waiting for them - hunters love their ambushes.”

Jack knows Nines, the tough bastard that he is. LaCroix’s surprised him in recent days, never thought the guy could’ve pulled off the things he’s claimed to.

“They’ll be fine.” Jack says, making the other two Anarchs jump. He’d been sitting silently in the corner for so long they’d almost forgotten he was there. “Nines isn’t a pushover, and LaCroix’s got some fangs under all that pomp and Cammy bullshit. It’ll be a helluva lot more difficult to catch them off guard.”

He grinds out the stub in a nearby ashtray. “Have a _little_ faith.”

* * *

The docks are humid and buzzing with a tired energy as night-shift dock workers load and unload cargo, operate cranes, and chat amongst themselves. Planks creak under their feet as Nines and LaCroix walk to the only freighter in port.

Yellow tape barricades the entrance to the ship, a lone police officer standing to the side. The ride over had been silent; the cab driver, whose face Nines struggles to remember, barely said a word after asking where to go. LaCroix had told Nines to follow his lead as they neared the ship, while the pseudo-order rankled, LaCroix knew what he was doing, hopefully.

The officer looks up to the two men as they walk closer and immediately frowns.

“Chrissake, I thought Jacobsen got what he wanted Tuesday night. What’s he thinking, sending a pair of Miami Vice wannabes to this fucked up bloodbath. Tell him if he wants to make it to editor-in-chief he’s gotta start working with me in person.” He says, hands on his hips. Nines frowns at the cop, folding his arms over his chest.

“Jacobson didn’t tell us this would be a formal affair.” LaCroix replies smoothly, Presence washing over Nines and the officer. The other man sighs heavily.

“Whatever. You two didn’t even think to dress like, I dunno, an investigator? Coast guard guy? You look like youse crawled off the cover of Esquire Magazine.” He gestures to LaCroix and Nines, who had changed clothes before the Ventrue showed up and was wearing a fleece-lined, denim jacket over a white t-shirt.

“Enough.” Nines interjects. “Listen guy, we need to do this fast if we don’t want to get caught.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. I can get you two into the cabin, but you’ll have to make yourselves real scarce after that. And if anyone catches you, I don’t know neither of you." LaCroix nods to the officer and Nines glares at him a they pass.

"And no goddamn flash photography.” He calls to their retreating backs.

* * *

The Elizabeth Dane is quiet when it shouldn’t be. A ship this size should groan and creak as bulkheads shift under the rocking waves; lightbulbs should flicker in their holders; footsteps should ring out down metal hallways. Quiet chatter between crewmates should leak out from under closed doors as Nines and LaCroix sneak through the ship. But it’s quiet. The sounds have become ghosts, and it sets Nines on edge.

The smell of blood hangs thick in the air, portholes encrusted with the stuff, and handrails gone tacky. They pad up the stairs, boots echoing against the grates. It stinks of more than just blood, the acrid smell of piss and shit stings Nines’ nose. He remembers Skelter or some other Anarch talking about how mortals’ bowels release their contents upon death, something about sphincter muscles relaxing.

“So did you really do that?” He asks, suddenly reminded of something Jack had mentioned in passing.

“Do what?” LaCroix says, looking back at Nines.

“Carry me through miles of sewers. Jack seemed pretty convinced you did.”

LaCroix pauses, peeking around the corner and waiting for a police officer to walk down the hallway before responding.

“Yes. And I’d rather not return to that fetid hellhole if I had the option, thank you very much.”

Nines tries to think of a response, feeling like he has to say something - that he owes LaCroix that much, at least. But the control room’s door appears, and they slink in without another word. The room is bare but for a pair of thick monitors perched on a foldable table, several crates are shoved into the corner and an unpowered water cooler sits beside the door. It looks like the Sabbat had left this room untouched, no trace of blood speckling the glass or coating the metal floor.

Nines’ gaze flits over to the stack of magazines piled on the crate beside the computers. A World War Three conspiracy magazine juts out from the racy covers of porn mags like Motorwhore and Bitch Frenzy. He wonders what those long hours out on the sea were like for the recently deceased crew. Did they know what was killing them? Were they scared?

LaCroix makes a beeline to the computers, booting up the thick monitor and clicking through the menu tabs. He grumbles a curse, glaring at the monitor. The green light catches on his nose and cheekbones.

“Why do you need to access controls?” asks Nines, catching a glimpse at the tab LaCroix had selected.

“So we can turn on the cameras and look at the crime scene without being spotted. Only problem is the bloody thing’s got a password lock.”

Nines hums, looking at the bright green text.

“Try lighthouse.” He murmurs.

“… Pardon?”

Nines shrugs.

“Sailors likes lighthouses? I don’t know, wouldn’t hurt to try.”

LaCroix stares at Nines, blinking once before shaking his head and turning back to the monitor.

“This can’t honestly work…” LaCroix mutters. The small room fills with the sound of a clacking keyboard. He pauses, looking at the screen with raised brows. “Huh.”

“Wait was it actually lighthouse?” Nines asks, perking up. He walks over to the screen and sees a new menu page, _password accepted_ scrawled across the top. Nines barks out a laugh, clapping his hands together in victory. LaCroix rolls his eyes.

“Everyone gets lucky now and again.”

“First fuckin’ try!”

“Please keep quiet, you don’t want to alert any attention to us.”

“You’re just jealous I figured it out before you.”

LaCroix _humphs_ , clicking through the camera feed on the other monitor screen without responding. Nines watches the screen flicker as it rotates through the different cameras, a hallway, another hallway but covered in blood, a stairwell with a pile of rotting offal strung down the steps. The Sabbat had chased the crew, hunted them down like ferrets in a rabbit’s burrow. If Nines listens close enough, he could swear the screams were still echoing.

The outer deck of the ship held the worst of the massacre, the hazy camera struggling to pick up the sheer amount of carnage on the steel floor. Containers were spattered in blood, some had large dents where skulls were crushed into them.

The Sabbat are an example to every other Kindred on what not to do, of what happens when you let the Beast run your life. This scene only makes that more obvious to Nines. He glares at the screen, spotlights shining on the spot where the sarcophagus had been sitting. There’s a disturbance in the blood pooling on the floor where it had been dragged away.

“You’d think someone would’ve heard something going down on the ship.” Nines mutters. Even moving the sarcophagus should’ve turned some heads.

“Maybe they did, but didn’t want to investigate. Perhaps they simply didn’t care.”

“How morbid of you.” He drawls.

“You grew up during the Great Depression, Rodriguez, you know how apathetic humanity can be.”

Nines grimaces, old memories of hunger and too much responsibility on a seven year old's shoulders resurfacing. LaCroix elbows Nines, jolting him out of his thoughts. 

"Look." He says, before Nines can hit him back. Nines looks to the screen LaCroix is pointing at and curses.

"That doesn't look like any sort of law enforcement." He mutters, watching the camera film a dark figure lingering in a hallway, peering around the corner. 

"He's heading to the control room." LaCroix says, tone urgent. "That's the same hall we were in."

"Shit." Nines sees LaCroix draw a .357 Magnum from the depths of his jacket, and turns to the door they came in from.

"Be ready." 

The door creaks open, LaCroix raises his gun and Nines calls on Celerity, feeling the world slow down around him. He crosses the room in half a blink, throwing the door open and yanking the figure into the control room, then slamming the door shut in one flurry of movement.

The intruder - though, him and LaCroix are no better - snarls as he struggles to catch his balance. Nines charges the intruder, trying to grapple him to the ground. The muscles beneath him suddenly tense and Nines is met with the supernatural strength of Potence. The Brujah calls upon his own Discipline to counter it, locking with the Kindred. 

A loud bang rings out through the tiny room and the intruder howls in pain, crumpling to the ground. Nines goes down with him, pinning his arms behind his back and digging his knee into the Kindred's spine.

He looks up to LaCroix, who holds his gun steadily in both hands, barrel smoking. The intruder's left knee is a mess of vitae and bone, joint shattered from the bullet's impact. Nines wonders if it was a hollow-point, considering how shredded the wound was. It'll heal messily and slowly, giving them enough time to interrogate him.

LaCroix steps closer to the Kindred, gun in hand.

"Now, who are you?" He mutters, kneeling down in front of the intruder's face. Nines grabs a fistful of hair and yanks his head up. 

"Fuck you, you fucking Cammy asshole motherfu-" The lick's tirade morphs into a scream as Nines digs a foot into his injured knee.

"You don't seem to understand how this is going to play out." LaCroix says, voice eerily calm. His eyes flare cyan and Nines feels the Kindred relax. "You _will_ tell me who sent you, and why." 

"Arch - fuck. Andrei. Archbishop Andrei sent me." The shovelhead's voice comes out ragged. 

"Good. Continue."

"We found - we -" The Sabbat grimaces as he groans and squeezes his eyes shut. LaCroix slowly cocks back the hammer of his gun. The Kindred's eyes fly open and LaCroix gains eye contact once more.

"We got the sarcophagus but the key was missing."

Nines and LaCroix share a look, frowning.

"What key?" LaCroix asks.

"I dunno they never... never told me. I'm just a grunt, man." 

"Who stole this key, why is it so important?"

"Some... some ugly fucking thing. I never saw it but someone else swore they saw this bald, little vampire sneaking around the sarcophagus while we cleared the ship." The shovelhead tries to grind his face against the floor, fighting against Dominate with all he had. Nines tightens his grip and forces the Kindred's head up with enough force to make his neck crack. The Sabbat makes a choking sound. 

"They key opens the sarcophagus. It's.. it's the only thing that can open it. I came back to track the vampire down."

Instead he came upon LaCroix and Nines. It's almost funny. 

"What are the Sabbat planning? Where is the sarcophagus being held?"

The shovelhead's mouth gapes open but no sound comes out. He jerks his head forward, ripping chunks of hair out of his scalp as Nines loses his grip. The Sabbat starts beating his head against the floor, screaming unintelligibly. He writhes with a newfound strength, bucking Nines off of him as he surges upwards despite the ruined knee.

Before the shovelhead can do anything, LaCroix fires two more shots, blowing enormous holes through his skull and chest. Vitae spatters against the walls and Nines. The body slumps to the ground, limbs jerking.

The room rings as the loud sounds dissipate and the body begins to burn away. LaCroix de-cocks his gun and holsters it, firearm disappearing back into his jacket. LaCroix watches the body disappear with a sneer, blackened skeleton sitting beside Nines in a pile of ashes. Nines stands up, rubbing the vitae that had gotten onto his clothes.

"Nice shooting." He says, breaking the tense silence as they listen for any approaching police officers.

LaCroix nods, peering down at the skeleton, thoughts elsewhere.

"I'll throw the bones overboard, you can get rid of the ashes." Nines wipes the ash off his jeans. LaCroix hums in acknowledgement, looking back at the computers.

"We'll reconvene on the docks," he says, voice quiet. "Don't get caught. I doubt the gunshot and yelling went unnoticed."

LaCroix sighs then, shoulders sagging. There’s a resigned air around him that Nines feels is unwise to disrupt just yet. Nines gathers the bones up with a spare plastic bag that he’d found in the crate and walking out of the room. He dumps the remains into the dark water below, where they splash and bubble before the surface water stills once more.

Nines watches the bones sink, wondering how far this war with the Sabbat will go. No one’s calling it a war just yet, too afraid to. But butchered ships and kidnapped Kindred are just the beginning. A lump of dread settles in his chest. There aren’t many Anarchs left from the Free State days. He doesn’t know how many will be left after all this is over. He doesn’t know how many still look to him for guidance – and if he’s capable of giving it. Nines shakes the thoughts out of his head, turning away from the guard rail and slinking down the rope ladder.

* * *

The police officer from before was now absent, dock eerily silent in its desertion. The night sky is illuminated in a hazy yellow from Los Angeles’ city lights. Nines leans against a crate, taking in the distant sounds of traffic and life that even the port can’t block out fully. The Pacific Ocean laps at the wooden posts, barnacles and algae illuminated by the orange lights.

He catches sight of LaCroix’s figure, dark and sharp against the lights as he stands by the edge of the dock. His pale hair is almost orange in the light. It’s strange to Nines - to see it slicked back and neat. He’d grown used to the messy style that would fall against LaCroix’s forehead during their time in the monastery.

LaCroix turns back to look at Nines and they share a nod. Nines sighs, resting heavily against the crate when he realises he’ll have to come to a decision about a Camarilla-Anarch alliance, too.

A sharp pain in his hand makes Nines hiss, jerking it away from the crate he’d rested it on. A large splinter was lodged in the meat of his thumb. Somehow, he’d missed it while picking out the others. Wrinkling his nose, Nines grits out a curse as he tries to scrape away the layer of skin that had healed over it.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” Comes LaCroix’s voice as he nears Nines.

“Splinter.” Nines grunts. “Won’t come out - fuck.” His wince is more a frustrated snarl as he picks aggressively at the splinter.

LaCroix sighs, making a tutting sound with his tongue.

“Give me your hand Rodriguez, you’ll just drive it in further.”

Without thinking, Nines lets LaCroix take his hand in his own. They’re surprisingly gentle as they probe the area. Using his thumbs, LaCroix squeezes the wood shard out of Nines’ palm until enough of it had surfaced to pull out with his fingers.

His hands are steady, and Nines can’t help but watch the tendons dancing underneath LaCroix’s skin. The nails are blunt like Nines’ own, bitten down to small circles before his Embrace. There’s a white scar along his right knuckles, like they’d been split by someone’s teeth in a fight.

Nines looks at LaCroix, who looks at his hand. His brow is furrowed in concentration. Nines doesn't know how to feel just yet. He will, in time, but now he focuses on the cold hands that feel warm in his own. Focuses on the face of an enemy who's become a little more than that.

“Here,” says LaCroix, holding the splinter between his thumb and forefinger victoriously. A half smile pulls at his lips. “Try not to fill yourself with small wooden stakes next time.”

Nines realises he’d been staring.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Thanks.” 

Nines’ gaze fixes on the splinter, the sensation of LaCroix’s hands on his lingers. 

“I forgot to say before, but I owe you.” He says, after a pause. LaCroix turns to him, brow raised. “Thanks. For getting me out of there. For not ditching me.”

Nines shoots LaCroix a grateful smile. The Ventrue’s eyes widen, flicking downwards before blinking rapidly.

“Yes, well. You’re – I - ” LaCroix clears his throat and Nines fights back a laugh. “I didn’t want De Mer and Bach to have the satisfaction of giving the leader of the Anarchs his Final Death.”

“Sure you did.”

LaCroix huffs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. If they’d been alive, Nines doesn’t doubt he’d have been blushing, considering how flustered he was.

“So,” Nines starts. “Who do you think that shovelhead was talking about?”

“The thief? I’m not sure I’ve heard of a specific Kindred that fits the description of short, bald, and ugly. But I do know of a clan infamous for their looks.”

“You think a Nosferatu stole it?”

“Perhaps, or maybe a Nosferatu knows who did.”

“Guess we’ll have to make our way there to find out.”

LaCroix’s head jerks over to Nines as he looks at him in poorly concealed surprise.

“… Indeed.” He says, sighing. “I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but I have no idea where the Nosferatu Warrens are.”

Nines jolts, blinking.

“What?” He responds. “I thought they were aligned with the Camarilla.”

“I have a Nosferatu Primogen, but that doesn’t mean we trust each other. We communicate through email and phone calls, and we've only met in Ventrue Tower. They keep the location of their home very secretive.”

“For good reasons, I guess.” Nines remarks, shrugging. He’d never put much thought in the Nosferatu, never trusting nor needing them for information.  
  


LaCroix hums.

“Makes it bloody difficult to talk to Gary when I need the bastard.”

Nines huffs out a laugh. “Abrams might know where they are.” He says. LaCroix nods.

“I was thinking that, but I doubt he’d be willing to give that information out to an agent of the Camarilla. Much less their Prince.”

Nines looks at LaCroix through the corner of his eye. They’d worked well together, better than Nines had thought.

“Then I guess you’ll need the Anarchs help.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I think I can stomach an alliance with you, cape.” Nines says, nudging LaCroix with his elbow. The Prince rolls his eyes.

Nines just has to convince Damsel he's not gone batshit insane, and that this alliance is a good thing. He’s not looking forward to that conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas here's more gay vampire fanfiction, now with added hand fixation <3  
> idk if You Yanks (love u guys <3) actually use 'youse' but for people who mightn't know, it's the informal, plural 'you' and it's used a lot in ireland and the uk


	7. A Fiendish Production

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And won't we ever ever stop  
> Won't we ever stop to learn  
> Doesn't everybody want the same thing?  
> Food, roof, and family  
> \- Food Roof Family, Levellers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> specific warning for this chapter - graphic description of torture and amputation

Damsel was a real snot nosed kid. Kinda ugly too, now that she thought about it. Teeth too big and jumbled for her mouth. All sharp elbows and knobbly knees. Yet to shed that feral mind of a young girl.

But she knew how to fight. All the boys on the school ground had come to know that, too.

There’s a day Damsel remembers vividly, decades ago now. When one of her friends came over to her during recess, tears streaming down her face. Robby Braun, that rich fuckwit, had yanked her ponytail hard enough to hurt. That tiger’s roar of a storm had kicked up in Damsel’s chest for the first time, when she saw how upset her friend was.

Even at eleven she knew what to do, storming up to Robby with all the righteous fury of a pissed off kid. Damsel had punched him in the face with a wild right hook, out in the open for all his fuckwit friends to see. She’d broken his nose, and all the blood had made him cry ‘cause he’d thought he was going to die.

She remembers the red and purple of her bruised knuckles, the ache in her wrist as she sat in the principal’s office. Listening to Principal Devon explain to her mom why Robby Braun was gonna be a mouth breather for the foreseeable future. Her mom had been stoically quiet, nodding her head at the right moments and letting the principal know she’ll discipline Damsel accordingly.

The car ride home had been quiet, painfully so. Damsel remembers how sweaty her hands had been; her child’s mind thinking up all the horrific punishments in store for her. Though most of it was stolen from that documentary on the history channel about medieval torture methods she’d stayed up late watching, while mom was out working night shift at the Surfside Diner.

Her mom had taken her into the garage. She wasn’t allowed in there alone– too many dangerous tools she could hurt herself on. Her mom strode to the corner of the room, and dragged out an old, beaten up punching bag that was more duct tape than leather.

“Take it your wrist hurts?” She’d said, over the scraping of metal on concrete.

Damsel had nodded slowly, holding her right hand. Her mom had made a noise in the back of her throat.

“Smarts when you punch ‘em wrong, didn’t hold your wrist right. You’ve got my temper, kid. And you probably feel like you have to take out all that rage and need to protect out on anyone who hurts your friends, right?”

Her mom had nodded knowingly at Damsel’s affirmative. “Same as your grandma and your great grandma. We’re a bloodline of momma bears, you know. No point in trying to tell you not to defend your family, you’ll do it anyways.” Her mom had patted the punching bag fondly, chains creaking. “May as well teach you how to throw a punch without fucking up your hands.”

Damsel knows how to fight. All the capes in Los Angeles have come to know that, too.

But Damsel doesn’t know if she can fight whatever’s happening between LaCroix and Nines. Doesn’t know if it’s right to.

She sits at one of the tables closest to the Last Round’s front door, waiting for a familiar face to reappear. Even the loud music couldn’t distract her from the worry that she’s letting her friend get poisoned by whatever the Prince is telling him.

The bar had quickly filled with Anarchs, once word got out that Nines was as alive and well as any Kindred could be. The air was alight with anticipation – everyone wanted to see for themselves that the notorious Nines Rodriguez had survived another brush with Final Death.

She lets her fingernails clink against an empty beer bottle, other hand twirling the pocketknife Nines had given her at the turn of the millennium. It was the year Damsel had finally moved from Fledgling to Neonate, too. Nines, in his own way, had wanted to commemorate it.

“I remember my first fifteen years as a Kindred,” he’d told her, as they shared a cigarette out the back of the Last Round. A moment’s reprieve from all the noise of the New Year’s celebration. “It fucking sucked. So… Yeah. Here. Hope it does you well.”

It was a nice knife. The three-inch blade was carbon steel, the hilt a well-polished ironwood. Damsel smiles crookedly, running her thumb over the inscription. There was an acronym burned into the wood: DoD. _Damsel of Distress_. Damsel had given Nines shit for being such a sap, but she loves the damn thing.

She sighs, clicking the blade shut and shaking the sentimental pondering out of her head. There must be something in the air for her to be so damn maudlin all of a sudden.

Damsel’s head snaps up, along with every other Anarch’s in the bar, as the door to the Last Round opens. She sees Nines enter, the subtle power of an achieved Brujah rolling off of him. He’d been in a fight; she can see the vitae spattered on his jeans. Nines’ eyebrows shoot up when he realises the Last Round had repopulated – and its patrons were eager to catch up with their leader.

He catches Damsel’s eyes as he talks with them, letting them know what the hell was going on. She gives him a smirk and gestures at the Anarchs crowding him. _Have fun_ , she mouths. Nines gives her a vaguely desperate expression before going back to politicking with Anarch representatives from other areas and regrouping with his locals.

By the time he makes his way over to Damsel, it’s been about half an hour.

“That looked fun.” Damsel remarks, as Nines collapses onto the seat across from her with a sigh.

“Don’t get into politics, kid.”

She snorts, playing with the long-empty beer bottle. “Is that what you’re calling whatever’s going on between you and the capes?” Her voice takes on a more flinty edge. Nines winces.

“I know it looks strange that, of all the people I’d be chummy with, it’s LaCroix. But…” Nines frowns at the table, clenching his fists. He looks up at her, eyes stormy and jaw tense.

“But we went through some shit, Damsel. And - I don’t know. I don’t think he’s plotting to off me just yet. We've worked well together so far, and the Anarchs can't face the Sababt alone. He’s not just a faceless symbol of the Camarilla anymore, either. Fuck – Damsel, he told me about his little sister and - and his time in Napoleon’s army. And I… I told him about Luis.” He admits in a rush.

Damsel watches Nines’s shoulders rise up as he hunches in on himself minutely. Tension runs across the lines of his body; Damsel realises with a pang that he’s waiting for her to give him shit for even admitting that.

It’s a good thing he caught her in a sentimental mood. Nines was older than her, and _strong_. Strong enough to be depended on in this fucked up underworld. Damsel sighs heavily, releasing her tight grip on the neck of the beer bottle.

“Fine." She says, choking back the bitter frustration. "Whatever alliance you think there is with the Camarilla, I gotta trust you to handle it.” Not like she has much of a choice, stubborn ass. 

“There’s enough shit going on right now, anyways.” She gives him a side eye, “someone has to take care of our Anarchs while you’re off playing Detective D’Angelo with Frenchie.”

Nines rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh. She sees him relax, and tries not to feel like she’s letting him walk right into the cape’s hands. “We found out some important stuff, killed a shovelhead, I hacked a computer. You could say it was a successful trip.”

“Oh yeah? How’d all that unfold?”

Nines’ raconteur side, the one Damsel sees about once in a blue moon, emerges with a smile as he begins talking. The guy was the oldest of nine siblings: he knows how to tell story.

“So it all starts with this cop - you ever heard of Miami Vice? Yeah? Well…”

* * *

Rain was as familiar to him as the texture of his skin; Sebastian grew up on the drenched European coast, before being sent off to the academy. And even as a young man serving his Emperor, he grew accustomed to the downpours that vomited against his shoulders and back as he marched those hundreds of miles north, north, north.

But the rain of Santa Monica feels like tar. It slides down his face at a leisurely pace, and Sebastian can smell the ash and sulphuric acid. Sebastian listens to the slap of his shoes against the puddles. The streets are devoid of both Kine and Kindred alike, the quietness an unnerving presence that lurked in the alleyways. He doesn’t remember when it started to feel like this, like the town was holding its breath in anticipation.

It’s as he nears the Santa Monica Suites does he stop. There’s a car left forgotten on the side of the road; one tire hefted up onto the curb. Sebastian recognises the plates – it’s Mercurio’s. The rear wind shield is shattered, and faint trails of steam emanate from the hood. Sebastian grinds his fangs and unholsters his handgun. He nears the apartment building, looking down at the white, granite steps.

The rain had yet to wash away all the blood.

Sebastian pushes the door open slowly, hyper aware of his surroundings. The trail of red leading to Mercurio’s apartment breaches the uniformity of the black and white, checkered floor. He pads around the blood, listening for any lurking attackers.

The door to apartment four is ajar, slowly creaking open as Sebastian pushes with his left hand, gun ready in his right. The thick smell of blood hits his sinuses and Sebastian sees a crumpled form on the leather couch. It’s Mercurio, or what’s left of him. It looks like he’d taken some kind of beating to the head, and a shotgun blast to the guts. 

“Have you finally carked it, or should I call for the clinic?” Sebastian mutters, holstering his gun before pushing up Mercurio’s button down to take a look at his abdomen. The white jut of fractured ribs pierces out from his flank.

He rears back as Mercurio whimpers and drags himself up.

“What… Where…” He blinks rapidly. Or, the eye that wasn’t swollen shut blinks rapidly. The other was swollen shut and crusted over with blood. Mercurio’s tongue swipes out to lick at his dry lips, then pauses as he tastes blood. “Fuck.” He hisses. “Those fucking cocksuckers.”

“Yes, I’m sure they were unpleasant. Who did this?” Sebastian remarks, eyebrow raised. Mercurio jolts at Sebastian’s voice, like he didn’t realise he had company.

“Oh shit. Boss. You’re not dead. Or, y’know, more dead than usual.” Mercurio groans, trying to straighten. He hisses when the movement only manages to open up barely healed wounds. “Those Sabbat motherfuckers… fucking ganged up on me. Did they – oh god, is that my rib?” He pokes at the bone. “Oh fuck! It is!”

Sebastian rolls his eyes.

“Focus, it’s just a compound fracture. Tell me what happened.”

“I was… running some guns and ammunition for the Voermans. They wanted more security against the Sabbat, what with both the Anarchs and Camarilla missing their heads. Fuckers must’ve followed me,” Mercurio snarls. “Moment I’d left the rendezvous point, I got ambushed, and they tried to do me in with some shitty single barrel. Took off with all the weaponry when they thought I was dead.”

“I see. And what did they take?”

Mercurio winces, struggling to lift his head as his strength leaves him.

“Spas… Jaegerspas fifteens, McLusky point-fifties. Think someone made off with the… flamethrower…” Mercurio’s eyes roll into the back of his skull, and he slumps down onto couch, unconscious.

Sebastian sighs, watching his ghoul fall unconscious once more. He stands and makes his way to a nearby cabinet, opening it and pulling away the false back. A small cache of medical equipment sits in a sealed container. Sebastian pulls out a small needle, tube, and sterile blood bag. Sebastian stares at the tube, feeling the silicon texture between his fingers. He ignores the wave of nausea, dragging a chair up beside Mercurio’s couch.

With practised ease, Sebastian inserts the needle into the crook of his arm, watching the vitae begin to run through the tube and down into the bag. The faint sound of dripping fills the silent apartment. Sebastian settles in the chair, waiting for the bag to fill.

Sebastian’s only companions are Mercurio’s strained, wheezing breaths, and the faint hum of the air conditioning. The ghoul wasn’t the best of conversationalists anyway, too afraid of insulting his regnant. To Sebastian, that was just fine. Mercurio was just another subordinate. With a sigh, Sebastian wonders again if the Sheriff had survived. He felt defenceless without that Nagloper's solid presence.

Sebastian watches the half-filled blood bag swell with his vitae, dark red shining under the pale lights. He sighs, craning his gaze up to the ceiling. He wonders if the Sabbat were to be their only enemies. Or if the hunters had somehow survived the attack as well. Then there was the Kuei-jin to worry about. They had to have been plotting something. Kindred society was on the brink of chaos - Ming Xiao would be a fool to pass up on this opportunity.

Maybe, by some virtue of Sabbat viciousness, the monastery had been razed to the ground and the hunters had all met their gruesome ends. Maybe they would have one less threat to be watchful for.

But Bach had an unfortunate habit of surviving whatever was thrown at him. Sebastian wants to hope him and the other hunter, De Mer, had met their fate at the hands of the Sabbat. But that was only wishful thinking.

He feels a strange twinge in his chest, remembering the things she’d done to Nines during their interrogations. How he’d been reduced to a near shivering wreck, held together by only the wavering strings of his strength.

It was almost jarring, to see the fabled Anarch leader – respected even by the Camarilla Elders – in such a state. He doesn’t know why, but the memory of De Mer makes his fangs itch. Sebastian clenches his fist. No. He hoped De Mer had survived, so he could kill her himself.

The full blood bag sloshes against his foot. Sebastian blinks and lets the stirring in his chest settle. How Brujah, to be distracted by his emotions of all things. That Anarch must be infecting him with something.

Sebastian sighs with empty lungs, removing the IV and sealing the blood bag. He grabs a marker from the cache and writes **Drnk – cl by 3 il b n hwd– SL.**

Sebastian gives Mercurio one last look. The man will rouse from the smell of his vitae, and he should heal quickly enough with how much he’d given. Sebastian locks the door behind him, pushing the key card through the door jam. He shoves his hands into his jacket pocket, feeling the solid weight of his gun, and calls a cab for Hollywood.

* * *

The bright fluorescence of the Red Spot’s interior lights bleeds out onto the pavement, bleaching it in an off-white glow. It casts sharp shadows across Nines’ face, hollowing his eye sockets. He leans beside the payphones, watching people stalk down the street. There’s a tense undercurrent to the haze of Kine drunkenness. The shadows have become sharper, darker. The presence of the Sabbat in Anarch territory tends to do that.

To mortals, there'd been an increase in arson and assault in Hollywood. To Kindred, the Sabbat were systematically terrorising havens and Elysiums. No one could hide away in the sewers anymore, not with those things prowling the long corridors. He'd heard rumours of some kind of conflict going on in the Asian Theatre, not too far from Isaac's shop. Something about Tremere blood magic gone bad.

Nines frowns at the dark sign of the Asp Hole. The lack of red neon is glaring against the Hollywood backdrop. It was strange to see the club closed and quiet. The kid had only opened it recently, but Nines had quickly become accustomed to its presence; it had grown to be a popular feeding ground in recent days.

Nines lights the last cigarette in the pack he'd gotten from Jack, cupping the flame as soft orange light shines against his palm and face. He takes a drag, feeling the smoke sit in shrivelled alveoli before expelling it out into the night sky, white smoke dancing with the grey and black of distant factories. He doesn’t think he can get addicted to nicotine, and it doesn’t give him any kind of physical satisfaction, but it’s a familiar action all the same. A ghostly habit that haunts the tips of his fingers and hollow of his lungs. 

Most Kindred either picked up smoking before their Embrace, or to better blend in with the mortals. Unfortunately, Kine social norms are ever-changing. Nines has been seeing more than a couple no-smoking signs crop up in recent years, and the packaging for the bigger brands had all these graphic images and health warnings on them.

A yellow cab rolls up on the street in front of him, Nines looks up to see LaCroix emerge. He nods as the other man walks closer.

"How's Mercurio?" Nines doesn’t know him personally, but Skelter seems to like him after the guy sold him a Colt single-action. But he's not going to tell LaCroix that his ghoul is dealing weapons to the other factions.

"Alive. For the most part." LaCroix shrugs. “Was nearly bludgeoned to death by the Sabbat, but he should recover.”

“Well, shit,” Nines remarks, blinking. “Anyone watching over him, in case something happens?”

“No, but I locked the door behind me.”

Nines frowns. “A door isn’t gonna do shit to keep the Sabbat out. And haven’t you known the guy for, what, thirty years? Forty?”

LaCroix gives him a look. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just thought you’d be a little more bothered. You’ve known the guy for decades and he almost died.”

LaCroix shakes his head.

“Mercurio has survived worse.” He responds dismissively. “Besides, I’ve lost people I’ve known for far longer than I have him. There’s nothing to do but move on from it.”

Nines turns his head to blow out a plume of smoke, letting the frustration seep out with the wisps. He wants to say something, Brujah passion demanding it, but he also doesn’t want to get in an argument with the guy on the streets of Hollywood. That kind of thing tends to draw attention.

“Fine. Whatever, LaCroix.” He mutters. “C’mon. I want to get out of here, feels like we’re being watched.”

LaCroix falls into step with Nines as they walk down main street, some clubs are open but it’s coming close to the end of the night. Staggering groups of drunk Kine make their way from nightclubs.

“Ah, so you’ve felt that too?” LaCroix looks up at Nines, pale eyes grey in the yellow street light.

Nine grunts, side eyeing the crowd. That incessant prickle of stares on the back of his neck only makes Nines’ blood itch for a fight. He freezes, catching three men in the crowd, backs to them. He recognises them: the pack of three Sabbat thugs who had been terrorising fledglings in Downtown for years now. 

He grabs LaCroix by the crook of his arm. The other man stiffens.

“Wh-“

“C’mon.” Nines pulls LaCroix into a side street, letting the shadows drape themselves over him and LaCroix.

“The Sabbat are here,” Nines murmurs, as they walk through the alleys, padding past a group of homeless people huddled around a barrel fire. “We almost ran into a group of them.”

LaCroix looks behind them as they round the corner. “Good thing we didn’t, then.” He mutters. “I’m not too keen on suffering the same fate as Mercurio.”

They stop at the end of an alley, between an apartment building and the Sin Bin. They peer out to the main street, watchful of any lurking Sabbat.

"Think those Sabbat saw us?"

"I doubt it, but we should be vigilant nonethe-"

“Now then, you two shouldn't be here,” purrs a feminine voice, making them jolt. “Especially you, mister LaCroix.”

Both men whip around to see Velvet Velour standing behind them. She’s wearing a lilac silk robe over her work attire, hands on her hips as she watches them with a vaguely amused smile.

Nines clears his throat, deactivating Potence. He sees LaCroix holster his gun.

“Evening, Velvet.” Nines replies, nodding at the dancer. “Didn’t think you’d be out here, with all the Sabbat crawling around.”

“I shouldn’t be, but I’m actually on my way to Isaac’s shop. He’d called me a little bit ago, wanted to talk about something.” Her pale grey eyes flick out to the main street, perusing the crowds with an air of disdain. “And if there’s a reason _you two_ are working together, I imagine it has something to do with those Sabbat brutes in the city. They’ve been much bolder in recent days.”

“We need to talk with Isaac Abrams,” LaCroix says, keeping an eye on the main street. “We need to find the Warrens.”

The three speak in hushed tones, mindful of attracting attention to themselves.

“Ah, Hollywood’s underbelly.” Velvet says, long lashes brushing against her cheekbones as she looks down at the ground. “I don’t know anything about them. Isaac might, but he isn’t exactly close with the Nosferatu, poor creatures…”

She looks up at the two men with a coy grin, Toreador charm seeping out of her pores. “We may as well head there together. I could use two strapping young men as my escorts.”

The Ventrue and Brujah pause, blinking rapidly. Velvet walks past them out onto main street.

“Come on then, you two. The shop’s just down the street.” Velvet’s heels clack against the cement. Nines is surprised she doesn’t wobble, with how high the shoes were. He looks to LaCroix who shrugs and follows after the Toreador.

* * *

The front door was locked - Velvet instead guides them to a side entrance down an alley overlooking Downtown. LaCroix stares at the dark tower in the distance. While it was still prominent, Ventrue Tower was shorter now, less intimidating in its wounded state. A reminder of how things have changed. Velvet raps the door with the back of her hand, mindful of her long acrylics. Isaac tells her to come in.

The Baron’s welcoming smile hardens as he sees who trails in behind Velvet.

“VV, it appears you’ve let in a snake.” He gives LaCroix a look of derision as the Ventrue walks in through the front door.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Isaac.” Admonishes Velvet. “He's yet to try and buy the Calvoletti, again.”

“Ah.” LaCroix winces. “You’d heard of that.”

“Who in Hollywood hasn’t?” She replies, smiling. Nines gives LaCroix a look, brow raised. LaCroix pointedly ignores it.

Isaac’s eyes widen minutely upon seeing his third guest.

  
“Mister Rodriguez,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “So you did survive. How poetic, for the prodigal son to return to his people in our time of need. I’d criticise it for being a bit of a predictable Deus ex Machina, but it’s a desperately needed one.”

“Good to see you too, Isaac.” Nines nods at the Baron. “Though I can’t stay too long. We,” he gestures to himself and LaCroix, who lingers closer to the back of the room, pushed there by Isaac’s pinning stare. “Need to know how to get to the Warrens.”

Isaac’s jaw clenches, as his expression hardens. “I’m afraid I can’t help you in a way that’s in any way useful, though I can certainly point you in their direction. But first I need to discuss something with Velvet, and Velvet alone.”

“Why? What is it?” She asks, brows furrowed.

Isaac sighs heavily, turning his attention to his adopted Childe. “It’s Ash. He’s… he’s missing.”

Velvet doesn’t gasp, but her hand flies up to cover her mouth, eyes wide. “What? When did you last see him?”

“I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days. I expected to lose contact with all the chaos the Sabbat have been causing in Hollywood. But then I hear that the Asp Hole hasn’t been open in several days now.

“And then… yesterday I received this with my mail. No address. No idea who even sent it in.” Isaac gestures to a thick VHS tape in front of him with disgust. He pauses, rubbing his lower face with one hand.

Nines frowns at the VHS, feeling a nauseating wave of déjà vu as he stares at it innocuously sitting on Isaac’s walnut desk.

“What’s on it?” Velvet asks, peering down at the black, cracked casing.

“Nothing good.” He mutters. “And I’m not exactly in the mood to show it to the baby-faced Prince over there, either.”

“Isaac, they can help us.” Velvet says, before LaCroix can object. She puts a hand on Abrams’ shoulder. “Whatever you wish to show me, please let them be privy to it as well.”

Isaac stares at the tape, hands flexing and brow furrowed. He grits his teeth, shooting a probing glare at LaCroix, who gives him as cold a sneer as he can muster. Nines steps between them, anticipating some kind of clash. Instead, Isaac shakes his head, grabbing the VHS.

“Fine.” Isaac finally says. “Just… see for yourselves.” He jabs the tape into the player.

Nines can feel LaCroix’s smugness wafting off of him, and kicks the Ventrue’s shin with his heel.

The TV crackles to life, grainy footage sputtering into focus. It’s Ash. He’s strapped to a gurney that looks familiar to Nines. Pale face strained and barely holding back panic as someone moves around him. Nines feels his insides turn cold when he hears De Mer’s voice.

“Mister Rivers, I can’t say I’ve seen any of your films, but you’re certainly quite the actor for the brave face you’ve been putting on.” She says, voice low and droning. It buzzes a dime sized hole into Nines’ skull that no one can see. “But there’s no need for that anymore. Now tell me. Who is your leader, your… Baron? Where is their den.”

There’s no response. Nines sees Ash’s jaw tremble from how tight he’d been clenching it.

De Mer hums. “You know, mister Rivers, I’ve come to discover that small amputations can regenerate within a day of them occurring. But I never had the chance to experiment on entire limbs before. I wonder if a longer time frame is required, and if the body reconstructs it a certain way.”

The video goes dark as De Mer walks in front of it, leaning over Ash. “Stay still.”

Nines hears Velvet suck in a breath as a long, curved blade gleams in the light. It looks like something from a Chainsaw Massacre movie. He clenches his upper arms as De Mer slowly and deliberately cuts into Ash’s. Ash starts to scream and for a moment, Nines feels the press of a leather strap against his forehead. A phantom burn creeps along his arms.

With shaking hands, Nines stumbles to the back door, vision swimming. He hears LaCroix ask where he’s going. He thinks he says he's going out. He isn’t sure. His arms burn.

Nines gasps in the humid Hollywood air, legs trembling. He leans against the brick wall of Isaac’s shop. Maybe, maybe if he were alive the breaths would do something. He sinks down, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes hard enough to sees flashes of colour against the black of his eyelids. His arms are _burning_ , and he just wants them to stop.

* * *

Sebastian watches the falciform amputation blade cut through the skin with little resistance. Vitae sluggishly leaks out of the laceration as De Mer cuts deeper and deeper into his flesh. The hollow tubes of veins and arteries collapse from the lack of support, as the Inquisitor cuts through them.

Nines suddenly lurches and stumbles to the door Sebastian is standing beside.

“Where are you going?” He whispers.

“Out.” Nines chokes, throwing the door open with shaking hands.

Sebastian stares at the door with a confused frown, before choosing to turn back and watch the tape. The two Toreador are too focused on the tape to react to Nines' departure. He sees Ash fighting against his restraints, pained screams reaching a crescendo as his tendons and muscle fibres snap apart: purple and dull in the overhead light.

LaCroix knows that, if Ash were alive, the flesh would be a vibrant red; glistening with fascia and plasma. He’d had to hold down more than one thrashing soldier as a doctor, using a knife similar to the one De Mer had, removed gangrenous or frostbitten limbs. He watches Ash’s neck arch back at an impossible angle as De Mer puts down the knife and grabs an oscillating bone saw. 

Its whirs are drowned out by the sound of grinding bone, and Ash’s screams as they reach their frantic crescendo. LaCroix isn’t sure if it’s the pain driving his jerking movements and snapping teeth, or if the panic and trauma had forced Ash into a Frenzy. His lip twitches as De Mer continues on to the other arm. It’s disgustingly excessive.

Eventually, De Mer leaves the view of the camera, giving the LaCroix and the Anarchs present a full view of the butchery she’d made of the actor’s limbs. Bloodied tears slide down Ash’s face as he whimpers, eyes screwed shut.

LaCroix sees how Abrams is sitting back in his chair, head in his hands and back to the television. Velvet Velour looks on the brink of tears herself. He bites back a remark about Toreadors and their empathy. It won't be received well.

The screen goes black, white text appearing in a plain font.

**609 King’s Way.**

He doesn’t recognise the address, it might be in the hills, maybe Malibu. He sighs, watching the screen flash off as Velvet Velour presses a button on the bottom of the television with shaking hands. Her eyes are brimmed red with unshed tears.

She looks up at LaCroix before turning her attention to Abrams, whose head is still cradled in his hands. She tries to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder, but the Baron shrugs it off. Velour bites her lip and steps back as Abrams lifts his head to address the Prince.

"You know who that is." His voice is cold, like the drag of a knife against Sebastian's skin. "The bitch who tortured my Childe."

"I do."

"I want her dead."

"I'm not someone to be making demands of."

  
  
" _You think I give a shit about_ -" Abrams cuts himself off, fingers digging gouges into the wood of his desk. "We don't see eye to eye, Prince. I barely tolerate you and your court of sycophants playing king of the castle in your tower out there. Do not forget I am the Baron of the ground you stand on.

“I'll demand only one thing of you: kill that hunter. Bring me her head on a fucking pike, and I'll tell you how to get to the Warrens. That good enough for you, cape?" He sneers, hurt bleeding into venomous anger.

Sebastian watches the Baron. He's seen plenty of grieving and rage filled guardians in the past. Turned furious in their despair, like slavering dogs baying for retribution. He needed to get to the Warrens, needed to find out more about the sarcophagus and the key. They had a lead, at least - 609 King's Way. Something there may lead him to De Mer.

"Fine," he says, making for the door.

His back is turned. Sebastian doesn't see Isaac Abrams crumple at his desk. He closes the door behind him and doesn't see the Baron of Hollywood's stone mask begin to crack.

* * *

Nines feels a shadow fall over him but doesn’t feel the edge of a threat carve across his instincts. LaCroix’s footsteps pad over to where he sits.

“Why did you run off?” He asks, voice flinty. "I had to deal with Abrams by myself.”

Nines knows he has to answer, probably think up some snarky remark. But he’s tired. His arms feel like a worm of embers and magma is burrowing deep into the muscle, ache permeating into his bones. Nines shrugs instead.

LaCroix sighs.

“There was an address,”

“609 King’s Way.” Nines mutters.

“Pardon?”

“It was on my tape, too.”

“Your… Nines where you filmed as well?” LaCroix’s voice loses its original harshness, the undercurrent of barely-there concern almost makes Nines laugh.

Nines nods but doesn’t feel the movement. He’s numb, barely able to drudge up the energy to speak.

“Skelter got a tape. Day or so before we got out. Same address n’ everything.”

LaCroix frowns. “Strauss never mentioned any tapes to me.”

“Maybe it’s just De Mer.” Nines murmurs, eyes tracing along the cracks in the pavement. “She never touched you.”

There’s more silence. LaCroix mutters a curse as he checks the time on his flip phone.

“Do you have a haven nearby?” He asks, kneeling down to Nines.

“Yeah. Kenmore Avenue. Fifteen minute walk.”

There’s a pair of firm hands on his shoulders, pulling him up. Nines lets them.

“Let’s go, then.”

* * *

Nines thinks he’s walking. Everything feels hazy and he’d be frustrated at the state he was in if there weren’t cement blocks weighing down his conscious thought. Sluggishly, they walk to his Hollywood haven, further into town. It takes longer than it normally does, as they weave through back alleys and side roads to avoid catching the attention of the Sabbat.

At one point, LaCroix’s phone rings. Nines hears him mention Mercurio, and to meet him by the Red Spot tomorrow, bring the Hounds. Nines realises they might have to go there. 609 King’s Way. There might be a fight. He needs his guns, maybe some grenades. He’d heard there was a black market dealer somewhere near the Sin Bin. Shit, did he bring any cash?

They climb the fire escape to Nines’ haven. He digs out a spare key, hidden in a gouge in the wooden windowsill. As Nines enters the apartment, sliding the window open, he feels a little more like himself. More rooted.

It's a single-room apartment, cardboard shutters and thick curtains keeping out the light. There's no mattresses or proper furniture: it's just a room to spend daylight in and move on as quickly as possible. Rent was dirt-cheap, at least. Flies buzz around the room, humid air sticking to the back of Nines' throat. The two Kindred sit down against the wall after Nines boards up the windows and checks the locks.

He sees LaCroix grab a Djarum Black from a fancy cigarette holder. Lighting the thing, and taking a long drag before blowing smoke up to the ceiling.

"Of course you smoke cloves." Nines chuckles. "Take it you're too good for normal cigs?"

LaCroix rolls his eyes.

"Just because we're dead, doesn't mean I'll subject myself to bloody menthols." He mutters around the cigarette.

Nines makes to grab for his own smokes, before realising he'd used them all up. He curses and sighs, returning to slouching against the wall. The glowing tip of the clove cigarette and its dark paper comes into view. Nines looks over a LaCroix, who gestures at the kretek to take it.

They share a cigarette, there in the darkness. Their fingers brush as they pass it between each other. The astringent taste of cloves sticks to Nines’ tongue, sweet smell filling the small room.

His gaze flicks over to LaCroix, his profile faintly illuminated by the glowing tip of the cigarette. He looks calm, brow and mouth relaxed as he stares at the opposite wall.

“Why don’t… why aren’t you affected. By this. By De Mer.” Nines asks, breaking the companionable silence. He looks across to LaCroix as he hands the Ventrue the cigarette.

There's a pause before LaCroix takes the kretek. He frowns, looking down, before speaking again.

“I think any lack of reaction on my part is simply because I am older.” He replies, staring off into nothing. “Elder numbness finally setting in. I’ve seen worse than what the Society of Leopold have dispensed. I’m sure you have too, just from other Kindred. It’s different when it’s from humans.” Blue smokes streams out of LaCroix’s nose as he huffs a derisive laugh. “They’re supposed to be better than us, then they turn around and do something like _that_.”

Nines sighs. He remembers how vicious the Second Anarch Revolt had been, the things he’d seen had only hardened him to the reality of unlife. Then, why was he such a pathetic fucking mess now? Of all the things he’d survived, the horrors he’d beaten back, it was being helpless at the hands of a sadistic mortal that undid him.

A cold touch jolts Nines out of his dark thoughts. He sees LaCroix’s hand on his arm, where the muscle was visibly tense.

“I’m not going to ask what’s going on inside your head.” The Ventrue tells him, softy. “Just know we got out. Your Anarchs need you to be a leader, and you owe it to yourself to push past this. For now, rest. Wait for the sunrise to come and go.”

He feels LaCroix’s hand on his arm. It’s cold and rougher than he thought it would be. The fires sputter out against the contact. Nines lets himself relax into LaCroix’s… into Sebastian’s touch.

There was something brewing in the Hollywood hills. Spreading like a plague out into the sewers and LA territories. Nines was going to have to fight it with all he had to make it through the night.

  
For now, the sun rises; drawing the two Kindred into their torpor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeo i'm back at it with the hand fixation babeyyy  
> lacroix's note to mercurio is based off telegram style and reads Drink - call by three, I'll be in Hollywood - Sebastian LaCroix  
> yes nines wears double denim, no he won't change out of it, that's his ass kicking outfit


	8. In the Dragon's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take my eyes, take them aside  
> Take my face, and desecrate  
> Arms and legs, get in the way  
> Bodies break  
> \- Body, Mother Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fun level of the game where Andrei shows off his interior design skills, so warnings for mentions of torture, graphic descriptions of body horror, and overall gross-ness

Slater yawns wide enough to crack his jaw. Slouching in the scratchy chair behind the register, he looks up at the clock again. It's still only eight-thirty. Just like the last time he'd checked. Business was sparse compared to last night's chaos, it being a Monday night and all. The fluorescent lights are bright enough to drown out the brown and yellow sticking to the grout. The fridges at the end of the room buzz as the cooling kicks on.

The occasional straggler comes in, grabbing a pop or something before disappearing out into the night. There’s this one homeless lady who comes in, every now and again, to read the beauty magazines. No one’s ever seen her face or hands, but she always wears the same headscarf and sunglasses. Always talks in the same, raspy voice.

Slater doesn't see much issue with it, but his boss hates it when she doesn't buy the magazine, simply putting it back when she's finished with it. He'd told all Red Spot employees to either kick her out or demand she buy them. But fuck that guy; he doesn't pay Slater enough to care about magazine sales. 

Deb's on the radio, thankfully. He could listen to her speak all night about the weird shit going on in LA. Maybe he should call in, not that Slater had anything interesting to report. No special customers either, a shame.

His buddy, Trip, had mentioned there were a lot more people buying weapons off him in the middle of the night, after that terrorist attack in Downtown. And with the sudden increase in gang violence across Hollywood, Slater had smuggled in all kinds of good stuff in anticipation for when they started perusing his wares. But he'd yet to make a profit. 

The doors chime, as two men walk in. Slater straightens, peering over at them from behind the counter. They turn to each other; Slater barely catches their conversation. Something along the lines of: _Is it him?_ and _Who else would it be?_

The shorter one in the blazer barely looks at Slater before making a beeline to the shelves, peering at the bright packaging with an air of disdain. The taller guy, the one with the goatee and jacket, walks up to the counter instead.

The harsh lighting only makes his features more imposing; the guy is tall, looming over Slater with a dead, grey eyed stare. 

"Uh... S'up," Slater starts, trying not to wilt under his scrutiny. The man nods in greeting. "Welcome to the Red Spot, home of the Monstro-Chug, eighty-nine cents each..."

Slater looks behind him and sees the shorter man scowl at the cartoon dude on a Warheads packet.

"Do you guys need, like, help or anything?" He asks, unsure he wants the answer. There's something weird about them. 

The man with the goatee rolls his shoulders. “Yeah. Heard you’re offering a _special_.” 

Slater squints at the guy, he looks like a fighter, or someone who works in manual labour. Broad shoulders covered by his jacket, biceps straining against the fabric when he crosses his arms.

“You guys aren’t, like, serial killers, right? This isn’t gonna be ironic or something and you beat me to death with the stuff I sell you?”

“Why would I tell you if I was a serial killer?” The guy asks, giving Slater a look.

Slater shrugs. “Fair.” He pulls out a large cargo box, unlocking it and pushing the top open, before hefting it up onto the counter. “Okay, take your pick.”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up as he leans down to peruse Slater’s collection.

“Does he have any three-fifty-seven ammunition?” Calls the man in the blazer. He looks at the expiration date on one of the milk cartons in the fridge and wrinkles his nose, putting it down with disgust.

“C’mere and check yourself,” the guy in the jacket calls over his shoulder. Slater sees the other man roll his eyes and head towards them.

He nudges the taller guy out of the way, immediately rooting through the container. He peers at ammo boxes with a squint before placing them back with a muttered curse.

“Do you need glasses or something?” Asks the man in the jacket, watching his companion with a raised brow.

“The text gets smaller every bloody year… ah, here they are.” He holds up a box of .357 ammunition - enough for five rounds of six shots if the guy was using a typical Smith & Wesson handgun.

The man with the jacket looks down into the cargo box, eyes widening as he zeroes in on something. He reaches in, pulling out a nasty looking bush hook.

“Hardly subtle, that,” the man in the blazer remarks, watching the other heft it into his hands and make a couple experimental swings.

“Not looking to be subtle.” The taller one responds. He turns to Slater. “How much?”

“One-twenty, and it’s thirty for the bullets.”

The taller man roots around in his pockets, pulling out a handful of crumpled bills. He sighs, muttering a curse.

“Got anything for fifty?”

“Have a sledgehammer in the back- “

“It’s fine,” the other man cuts in, flapping his hand. “I have the money on hand, I can pay for it.”

He pulls out an expensive looking money clip, counting out the bills. Judging by the state of his clothes, Slater would bet the clip was sterling silver, too. The taller man frowns, moving closer to the counter.

“What? I don’t need your charity, I’ll get something else,” he says.

The shorter man gives him a look, and hands Slater three fifty-dollar bills. With more than a little trepidation, Slater takes the money, avoiding the taller man’s glare. 

“Oh please, you can pay me back later.” Blazer guy sighs as jacket guy continues giving him the stink eye. “Just accept the weapon, Nines.”

Slater’s eyes flick between the two of them, and decides they’d probably wreck his shit if he made any sort of comment about them bickering like an old married couple. Eventually the taller guy, Nines, lets up. Muttering _fine_ and grabbing the bush hook where the metal met the wood, carrying it out of the shop.

The shorter man nods to Slater. “I trust there will be a level of… confidentiality, yes?” It sounds more like a threat than a question. Slater nods, not knowing what else to do.

“Uh, yeah. I won’t snitch.”

The man gives him a smile with too many teeth. His canines are sharp in a way Slater isn’t sure is natural.

“Good.”

They leave with the sound of shoes scuffing the linoleum, and the automatic doors swishing open and closed. Slater lets out the breath he’d been holding, packing up his special wares.

God, LA was weird.

* * *

Bush hook in hand and hackles yet to fall, Nines leans against the outside of the Red Spot. The wail of a fire hydrant screams past him, vehicle tearing down the road towards the smell of smoke. The promise of fire makes Nines’ Beast grumble, doing little to lighten his bad mood.

Waking from torpor had been no different than any other night. The sudden snap of clarity yanking him from the murky depths of stasis. But he didn’t wake up alone, feeling the pressure of another person to his side. Sebastian's body must have slouched to the side during torpor, the Ventrue resting his head on Nines' shoulder.

It was strangely peaceful, his face relaxed in torpor. Sebastian looked younger without the Ventrue sneer and air of self-importance, like how he had been during their time at the monastery.

A couple strands of hair had fallen over his forehead. Nines, without thinking, had reached up to brush them away. But he’d stopped himself with a frown. Not a couple moments later, Sebastian had roused and pulled away with an awkward cough.

Neither mentioned the closeness as they walked back to the Red Spot, where Mercurio and the Hounds were due to pick them up. Now, Nines grinds his teeth to choke back the indignation at not being able to afford the weapon in his hands - and having to depend on a cape, of all people. He doesn’t want to make it a habit of owing Sebastian, despite their recent history.

Nines looks up as Sebastian exits the store, clicking half the bullets he’d bought into speed loaders. He catches a glimpse of Sebastian’s leather shoulder holster as the man puts away his gun, and slips the ammo box and speed loaders into an inner pocket.

Nines wonders if the blazer was custom made to hide the shape of the gun; Sebastian’s silhouette was unchanged by the weaponry and bulky ammunition box. Sebastian looks up, catching Nines’ frown.

“Are you still in a huff over me paying for that?” He asks, gesturing to the bush hook with exasperation.

“More annoyed that I keep owing you shit,” Nines replies, grip tightening against the wooden handle.

Sebastian opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by his phone ringing. He sighs, stepping away and flipping the phone open with a flick of his wrist.

“Yes, what... what. How will –” Sebastian pinches the bridge of his nose. To the side, Nines can hear someone’s voice on the other end, talking rapidly. “Fine. Do you remember the address? Get a cab, then, take the Hounds with you.”

The phone smacks shut as Sebastian hangs up with a groan.

“Gonna enlighten me on that little performance?” Nines quips.

“Mercurio’s car won’t start, the Sabbat must have done something to the engine when they were shooting at him. He’s taking a taxi to the address, and so are we, unfortunately.”

Nines hums, scratching his chin. He looks down at Sebastian, who is already punching in the number for Call-A-Cab. He holds a hand up, stopping the Ventrue from pressing call.

“I’ll get Damsel to drive us there, I’d be happier having more than just your Camarilla agents at this place, anyways.”

Sebastian frowns. “We don’t need so many people to help us, and if she has to drive all the way from Downtown it may take longer.”

“We could use the numbers; would hate to be overwhelmed by those Tzimisce monsters like the hunters were.” Sebastian doesn’t look entirely convinced, but Nines presses on. “And, in case you haven’t forgotten, it was your idea for Anarchs and Camarilla to work together.”

Nines shifts his weight to one hip, crossing his arms. Sebastian’s lips thin as he presses them together. He opens his mouth to say something, Nines leaning down to listen with a raised brow. Sebastian hesitates, seeing the logic in Nines’ statement. His shoulders fall and he sighs.

“Fine.” He mutters. “Go call your Anarchs.”

Nines walks to the phone booths with a grin, patting Sebastian on the shoulder. He ignores the Ventrue’s cursing. He calls the Last Round’s number, knowing it off by heart. Someone picks up on the second ring.

“Yeah?” The shriek of metal cries out in the background.

“Hey Damsel. How busy are you tonight?”

“Depends. What do you need?”

“Remember the address on my… _that_ tape?”

“609 King’s Way,” she responds without hesitation. “You thinking of checking it out?”

“Yeah. Ash is missing, Abrams got a tape with the same address.” Nines can hear Damsel hiss out a curse between her teeth; she frequented the Asp Hole more than he did.

“Count me the fuck in,” she growls. “I’ll bring Skelter and Jack in Berta.” She sounds excited, in a bloodthirsty way. Nines makes a sound of approval.

“Pick us up at the Red Spot as soon as you can, time is of the essence right now.”

“Don't worry, I'll be on my way - wait, us?”

Despite Damsel not being able to see him, Nines bites back a wince. “Remember your favourite cape? He could do with a ride, too.”

“Oh, fuck off. No way I’m letting his grubby little Ventrue hands touch the upholstery.”

“Damsel.” Nines’ tone leaves no room for objection.

“Alright! Fine! Whatever you say _dad_ , but he better not be a prick on the drive there.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Damsel's beat up 1980 Ford F-250, more affectionally known as Berta, rolls to a stop outside the Red Spot. The blue stripe running down the sides of the truck is faded and flaking, rust creeping along the fenders. Nines sees Sebastian wince out the corner of his eye. Nines nudges him with his elbow.

"You want to get thrown out a moving truck, keep making that face."

"What face?"

"Like someone just took a shit on your lap."

Sebastian immediately gives Nines a disgusted look.

"That face." 

"... I'll keep that in mind," the Ventrue mutters, as Damsel cranks down her window and leans her head out. 

"Hey! Lovebirds! Get your asses in here already."

Nines, the gentleman that he is, opens the door for Sebastian to get in first. The Prince pauses when he sees the other occupant of the back row. 

Jack grins at Sebastian, edges of his mouth disappearing behind his thick beard.

"Evenin’ LaCroix. C'mon, take a seat beside ol’ Jack." The Brujah says, breath pungent enough for Sebastian to smell. 

"I'd rather not," Sebastian responds immediately, trying to back out.

"Too fuckin' late," Nines grumbles, pushing Sebastian into the car.

The Ventrue sits awkwardly between Jack and Nines as the Ford starts up again. Jack wheezes out a laugh as Sebastian holds himself stiffly, arms in tight to avoid touching them. 

"Y'know, if I didn't know any better," starts Jack, looking to his fellow Anarchs. "I'd say his highness might be a bit uncomfortable."

"Aw, are the amenities not to his likings?" Damsel croons in a mocking tone, driving through Hollywood with no little abrasiveness. "No hot towels? Lemon scented drinks? I can dig around the glove box for any mints, _sir_ , if that's suitable for your delicate palate."

"I'd rather you just drive," replies Sebastian, staring blankly out through the windshield. Nines sees him gripping his legs with increasing force, and wonders if he should intervene. 

"Jeez. Do you ever take that stick out of your ass, LaCroix?" Jack jibes, looking over at Sebastian.

"Do you ever bathe?" The Ventrue responds, head turning to face him. Nines chokes back a laugh, covering his mouth with a hand as Jack sputters. 

"He's got you there, Jack." Skelter remarks from the passenger seat.

Nines sees Damsel's shoulders shake with a chuckle as she changes gears, turning off the main road to the Hollywood Hills. He simply counts it as a win that they didn't throw Sebastian out the car.

* * *

Behind a wrought iron gate stands the mansion of 609 King’s Way. It resembles a military compound more than an actual house. All straight lines and uniform shapes. The windows are blocked with tinfoil, shining faintly from the ground-lights that line the courtyard. Palm trees sway in the breeze, their organic shapes doing nothing to soften the mansion’s hard, imposing edges.

A cat yowls, upon seeing the gathered Kindred. The sky is a blank layer of clouds; stars and moon choked out by the roiling above. It’s quiet, even the sounds of traffic too distant to drown out the loud silence.

Jack whistles, looking up at the mansion.

“Ugly lookin’ place,” he remarks. Damsel grunts in agreement.

“Gives me the creeps. It’s too still,” she says, crossing her arms and tracing her gaze along the flat roof. Trying to pick out any lurking shadows looking down at them.

“Feel like something’s waiting for us in there,” Skelter remarks, voice quiet. “Hiding in the shadows, ready for when we get too close.” The Gangrel’s hands clench, claws forming from his nail beds in anticipation.

Nines sees the Hounds, Jo and Octavian, nod in agreement. They stay near their Prince, bracketing him on either side in place of the absent Sheriff. Mercurio leans against the car. His face still has some lingering bruising, but nothing incapacitating.

“Do you see anything?” Sebastian whispers to the Toreador.

Jo’s eyes flare red and purple as they scan the mansion. The Hound must have a well developed Auspex to be able to pick out auras from the distance they were at.

“There’s something in there,” he reports. The Toreador speaks softly, like it hurts him to speak any louder. Jo scowls, as his eyes track something Nines can’t see. “It moves like an animal, but with a monster’s aura.”

“Must be some form of szlachta, then,” Sebastian notes.

Jo’s head twitches from side to side as his eyes flicker. “There are more, on the second and third floors. They move fast. And there’s…” He pauses, brow furrowed. “There’s something worse in the basement.”

Almost instinctually, Sebastian turns to look at Nines. They share eye contact for a moment longer before Nines huffs out a sigh. He looks up to the quiet mansion, a cardboard veneer for monsters.

“Since day one I’ve been wondering why the hell those tapes mentioned this address.” Nines starts, projecting his voice for the entire group to hear it. “Well, now I can finally find out. Are you all with me?”

His Anarchs give Nines their own kinds of acknowledgements, of flashing fangs and growls. He sees Sebastian nod, and they turn to face the dragon’s den.

The Kindred vault the iron gate with little hinderance. Mercurio remains in Damsel’s truck, tapping idly against the wheel. If things were to go to shit, at least they’d have a getaway driver ready.

They’d agreed to split into two teams; Skelter leading the Hounds in infiltrating the mansion by the front door, after five minutes had passed; while Nines, Jack, Damsel, and LaCroix snuck round the back.

The backyard was completely obscured by high, pale walls and a full-length metal door. With a Potence-enhanced shoulder check, Jack rams the door open.

“When you said you knew how to get in, Jack,” Sebastian starts. “I assumed that meant you knew how to pick a lock.”

“It’s a shortcut, your highness.” Jack leers in response, as they creep through the walled off tunnel leading to the backyard.

The entire compound is covered in cement and tile. The pool is empty, bits of dark moss and algae clinging to the corners. If Nines gets too close to the walls, he can hear something groaning inside. Flies buzz along the cracks of the windows, desperately trying to get in. Beside him, Damsel is a tight ball of nerves and anticipation. She can smell the blood too and it sets her on edge; fists clenched and fangs bared. 

Like their own Masquerade, this house only pretends at being normal. And it does so poorly. There was no back door, no lawn chairs or barbeque grill. No child’s toys or forgotten books. Nothing truly alive occupied this place. Hadn’t for a long time.

They climb the faded white trellis, that’s more ivy than wood, to get to the second-floor balcony. A smell leaks out from the windows they crawl under and Nines’ nose wrinkles at the smell of rot.

“Jesus, what do they have cooking in there?” Jack grumbles, as they climb the spiral staircase to the third floor, where a set of sliding glass doors could be seen.

“We’re about to find out.” Sebastian mutters, unholstering his handgun. Nines stands from the crouching position he was in to pick his way across the house. His fingers hook around the frame of the sliding glass doors.

Nines looks down to the other three. They nod. He pulls the door open.

The smell of rotting, human flesh escapes the house.

Nines immediately backs away from the stench hitting him. He peers into the room and the walls are moving. It takes him a moment to realise he’s looking at skin, pale and pulsing. Blood seeps from black pits, flies swarm over the flesh. Nines can see writhing maggots in the corners of the room, where the flesh was thickest.

"Jesus Christ." Damsel hisses, covering her mouth with her free hand, cringing away from the sight and smell. 

Even the furniture was made of something human. Ribcages forming the back of chairs, curled fingers the ends of the arm rests. Skin stretches across a pelvic basin to mimic the seat and cushion. Interstitial fluid glistens in the dull lights.

“This is Vicissitude.” Sebastian grits out, wincing at the overwhelming sight and smell. “Wielded by someone with no small amount of skill: an Elder.”

“Why do you say that?” Nines asks, tearing his eyes away from the sight.

“Some of these parts are still alive.”

There’s a bed in the room. Nines recoils when he sees a man’s face in the centre of what would be the headboard. Twisted up in agony, pulsing in the reminder that it was still alive. Its mouth hangs open like a bleeding gash; eyes filmed over with a grey membrane as the pupils move from side to side.

Stretched skin, thin enough to be barely translucent, makes up the sheets. Femurs and radii line the frame. Something thin and red seeps from pockmarks where the skin was tearing.

A shriek cuts through the silence as a monster, not unlike what they encountered at the monastery, bursts from the bathroom, shattering the door.

It charges at them, lunging with two muscular legs. Jaw open. Nines raises his bush hook and Sebastian, in a blur of motion, shoots the creature in the mouth. It’s thrown backwards by the force of the shot, growl gurgling with blood. Nines strides forward and brings the bush hook down on it, blade slamming down between its eyes.

It bursts, blood and viscera exploding outwards as the monster lets out a dying yowl.

“Headhunter,” Sebastian mutters. “Don’t let them lock their jaws. Stay on guard, there will be more.”

“Know an awful lot about Vicissitude there, Prince,” Jack muses, Damsel's gaze flicks over to Sebastian as Jack says this, gauging his reaction. She'd noticed it too.

Sebastian gives them both a look, leaving the room without comment. Jack rolls his eyes and strides after him, out into the hallway. Damsel turns to Nines and he shrugs. The younger Brujah leaves the room behind Jack, Utica reloaded.

Nines goes to follow. He stops when his ears pick up a faint whisper.

_Kill… me…_

He whips around, the voice close enough to be right beside him. But Nines sees no one there. Just the haunting furniture that pulses on its own accord.

He scans the room, looking for anyone stuck in the walls or under the bed. But the room remains void of any people. Nines frowns, shaking his head. He leaves the room, ignoring the pained wail that follows him out.

_Nines… please…_

Nines lowers his head, wondering if the Tzimisce wielded some kind of Dementation. It was the only explanation for the voices he could think of.

The eyes in the centre of the headboard follows Nines as he leaves.

* * *

Because of the foil blocking the windows, the inside of the house is cold. Possibly to slow the effects of rotting. But it did little to hide the smell of pus and blood.

The tense silence is punctuated with the yowls of the head-hunters, and grunts of effort as the gathered Kindred hack and shoot at them. They move with enough speed to catch Nines off guard more than once, Jack prying them off his arm before they could bite through the bone.

Nines grows used to the weight of the bush hook - it takes time for it to gain the momentum needed to deal some real damage. Nothing a Brujah couldn’t work around. The bottom floor erupts into sounds as Skelter and the Hounds burst through the front door.

It draws the ire of four headhunters, that sprint from the surrounding rooms. But those decades out of the military had done little to soften Skelter's tactical edge, keeping the Hounds well structured as the monsters tried to eliminate the intruders. The Toreador and Ventrue must have been trained to work in a three, as they fight alongside Skelter with little friction, following his short orders and avoiding friendly fire.

The Ventrue Hound even manages to stop a headhunter from attacking Skelter's blind spot - letting it uselessly bite down on his Fortitude enhanced arm and holding it in place so the Toreador could shoot it. Skelter gives them a wild grin as thanks, finishing off the last of the monsters by plunging his talons through its skull and piercing into the hollow of its mouth.

Nines looks down the stairwell to the other group, blocked by a strange, ribcage barrier. He shares a nod with Skelter and continues through the second floor. Damsel gives Skelter a cheer, telling him he's hogging all the action.

They walk through the strange hallway; there’s a pristine grand piano in the next room, untouched by the gore and viscera coating every surface of the house. The white keys are stark against the red and black, dripping ceiling. Something splodges against Nines’ shoulder and he winces, ignoring it by opting to look around the room they had found themselves in.

It’s a living-room kitchen fusion, the untouched appliances coated in a thin webbing that stretches across the counters and down to the floor. Jack opens the fridge and pulls out a blood bag.

“Jack,” Nines starts with a sigh. “Don’t touch that.”

Jack gives Nines an incredulous look. “What? It’s free blood.” He gestures with the blood bag for emphasis.

“You really don’t know where that’s been.”

“Blood’s blood, Nines. I’m thirsty.” Nines rolls his eyes as Jack squeezes the contents of the pouch directly into his mouth. On the other side of the counter, Damsel simply watches with an amused stare.

“If that idiot manages to roofie himself, I'm not volunteering to hold his hair while he pukes.” Damsel mutters from across the counter, watching Jack chug the pack with little hesitation.

“Oh, calm down you two,” Jack remarks. “This shit is fresh - good quality, too. Tastes like Elder vitae.” He notes, smacking his lips and returning to root in the fridge. He shoves two more of the packs into pockets in his vest.

Sebastian shakes his head at the sight in the kitchen, before turning his attention to the wall behind the grand piano. From where Nines is standing, the piano obscures whatever Sebastian is staring at. But the Ventrue’s grim, focused expression piques Nines’ curiosity. He walks closer to Sebastian.

A strange, curved sword hangs from the wall. A pair of jaws bite into the hilt, while tens of curled fingers hold the scabbard up. A thin layer of fascia and tendons support the weapon, as well.

Under the gore, Nines can see the well-polished, gold embellishments adorning the dark leather. A red gem, possibly a ruby, sits in the centre of the cross-guard. It shines faintly in the flickering candlelight in skull-sconces on either side of the display.

It sits there, surrounded by filigree carved into the skin. It’s almost reverent, like the sword was meant to be acknowledged and honoured. Sebastian stares at the sword, shoulders tense and hands balled into fists. Nines is about to ask if he’s alright, when the Ventrue steps forward.

With both hands, he pries the jaws open. In a grinding crunch, they snap away and fall to the ground with a muted thud. Nines steps back as Sebastian works on freeing the rest of the sword, a strange fervour in his motions.

He grabs the fingers, two or three at a time; in one, quick jerk he snaps them off the wall. Sebastian throws them to the floor with little regard, intent on freeing the sword. Even Jack and Damsel eventually make their way over, watching the Ventrue tear at the gore. Downstairs, Nines can hear the fighting begin to die down, gunfire and the dying shriek of the headhunters becoming less frequent.

"There a reason Frenchie's decided to try his hand at vandalism?" Damsel mutters.

"Eh, the Camarilla are like that sometimes." Jack drawls. "Rebellious streak and all that."

The Prince plants his foot on the wall, and with one final yank, rips the sword free. There’s a squelch as bits of connective tissue clings to the weapon, before the Ventrue grasps it and tears it from the scabbard and hilt.

Nines swears he can hear the Ventrue mutter something under his breath. About the sword still being in good condition.

Sebastian tilts the weapon around in his hands, carefully cleaning away the worst of the… bits. A frown deepens on his face, mouth tight as he analyses the weapon. If Nines didn’t know any better, he’d say Sebastian recognised it.

“What’s with the sword?” Nines finally asks.

“This is a kilij.” Sebastian replies, without looking up from the weapon. “A sabre used during the time of the Ottoman Empire. Something of a predecessor to the blade I was trained to use.” He unsheathes the sword in one smooth motion, holding the scabbard at his left hip.

Where the hilt and scabbard were dark with blood, the blade was strikingly bright. Silver metal glinting in the low light, the curve only emphasised by its dark background. Sebastian peers down the blade, looking for any warping or rust.

“So, can you use it?”

Sebastian looks at him, then begins to run through some kind of drill; the sword curving to either side of his arm in a figure-eight motion. The kilij flashes as Sebastian twists his wrist, keeping his elbow bent. It never seems to extend too far from his body, blade always returning to lay across him in a defensive position.

The motions seem almost natural to Sebastian, who ends the drill with a final flourish before sheathing the sword once more. His smug look is Nines’ answer.

“Show off,” Jack mutters. Damsel makes a vaguely impressed face, nodding.

Nines rolls his eyes, clearing his throat with a cough - the Ventrue didn't look half bad with that sword in his hands.

Jack begins to walk down the hallway they had yet to check out. Nines stares over at Sebastian as he attaches the sword to his belt, the two suspension loops hanging from thin, golden chains.

“We break into a horrific, potentially cursed, mansion owned by a Tzimisce in the Hollywood Hills, and the first thing you do is steal their shit?” Nines remarks. Sebastian shrugs, not bothering to show any remorse.

“He’s not using it.” He replies dismissively. Damsel snorts in response.

A voice rings out down the hallway.

“Shit. Everyone!” It’s Jack. “Get your asses up here!” There's a strange urgency to his tone.

It’s coming from the room at the very end of the hall. Nines shares a look with Damsel and Sebastian, before they make their way down the hallway. Behind him, Nines can hear the other group make their way up as well.

The door is ajar, Nines shoves it open with increasing urgency. He freezes, eyes wide.

“Holy shit.” Nine mutters. The room is relatively untouched by Vicissitude’s corruption compared to the rest of the house. The only sign of the Discipline’s wrongness was the mess of a body on the bed.

"Oh fuck," Damsel chokes out. "That's fucking gnarly."

“Who is this?” Sebastian asks, staring down at the bed. “What happened to them?”

Jack sighs, unsheathing a knife. “This is Beckett. Historian extraordinaire.”

The infamous independent Gangrel looks up at the Ventrue and Brujah. Fused to the sheets by thin strands of his own skin. Beckett winces, movement stretching the skin of his neck. His hands are held closely to his chest, and Nines sees why – all the fingers had been curled backwards in a spiral.

“Ah, so my saviours are not just the Anarchs, but the Camarilla as well.” His voice is strained, despite the Gangrel attempting to put on a brave face. “I really must be quite popular for such conflicting groups to work together like this.”

“I didn’t even know you were in the state, let alone the city.” Nines admits, looking at where Jack kneels, using his knife to carefully cut along the skin.

“I had heard news about the Ankaran Sarcophagus making port in Los Angeles, and hoped to analyse it myself,” Beckett explains. “My primary goal was to put an end to the rumours that it held an Antediluvian of all things, honestly.”

He chokes back a groan as Jack cuts away the last of the strands on his legs and back, moving to his neck.

“Imagine my surprise when the sarcophagus never made it to the museum. By the time I tracked down the perpetrators by their stench, a Tzimisce Archbishop going by the name of Andrei had been waiting for me.”

Nines sees Sebastian clench his hands around his sword tighter. Jaw tightening as he grinded his jaw. Beckett continues.

“I’d been staked before I could react. Next thing I knew, I was here in the mansion. The Tzimisce has been trying pry the information out of me. Quite rude, in all honesty.”

The Gangrel gestures to his mangled limbs with a bitter smile. “I’ve only been here a handful of days, but it’s good you came sooner rather than later. The Tzimisce was almost finished with me.”

“Did you break?” Jack grunts, staring at Beckett’s injuries as he cuts through the last of the skin fused with the bed. Beckett sighs heavily.

“That doesn’t matter,” he replies. “Because that damned Dragon cared little for what I told him. The Sarcophagus simply cannot hold an Antediluvian – it predates the time of the Great Deluge and is most certainly the vessel of some shrivelled old corpse. Of course.” Beckett continues, straightening with a wince. “Andrei didn’t seem too pleased with my hypothesis.”

The other group makes their way up, crowding the doorway. The Hounds enter in last, behind Skelter. They quickly explain the situation with Beckett. Skelter seems more surprised than the rest that the Sarcophagus mightn’t be a true portent of Gehenna.

“We’ve cleared through the first floor, it’s a damn mess.” Skelter reports, leaning against the doorframe. "But it's strange; no captives or anything. No bodies on show. Heard the Tzims liked that sort of thing."

Beckett frowns. “You mean you heard nor saw anyone but me?”

“What do you mean, Beckett?” Nines asks, looking over to the Gangrel.

“There was another young man, he was here before me. I don’t…” Beckett trails off, the mangled remains of his hands twitching. “I am unsure of what happened to him. But Andrei asked him no questions. Simply shaping him. Making him a part of this house like many others before him.”

Nines feels something drop in his stomach.

“Did you recognise him?” He asks, almost afraid of the answer.

Beckett frowns, trying to remember. “He was young, neonate by our standards. Some of his limbs had yet to regrow from where they’d been amputated. But his face wasn’t familiar.”

Nines sucks in a breath, hands clenched into fists. He remembers the bed on the top floor. The whispers. The face in the headboard.

It was Ash.

Nines bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to break skin. He crosses his arms, swallowing the grief and pain, letting them be eaten up by the roaring inferno of rage. Nines' eyes flick over to Sebastian, who looks at him with a crease between his brows. He knows.

  
“We’re going into that basement.” Nines starts, voice low. The other Kindred look to him, some surprised by his severe tone. “We’re going down there and we’re rooting that motherfucker out of his den.”

Damsel nods once, always steadfastly loyal. She jerks her head, leading Skelter and Jack out the room. Under Sebastian’s orders, the Hounds wrap Beckett’s arms around their shoulders, carefully lifting the Gangrel.

Putting pressure on his warped legs obviously caused Beckett great amounts of pain, no matter how much he tried to choke back the agony. The Tzimisce knew what he was doing; manipulating the limbs in such a way to maximise the pain experienced.

Nines bites back a growl at the sight, clenching the handle of his bush hook with more force than necessary.

_God fucking damn it._ What was he going to tell Isaac and Velvet?

* * *

The group, with the Hounds and Beckett staying behind, ready to bolt to Mercurio if things went south, make their way to the basement. Grips clenching around guns and knives. Nines reaches the entry to the basement first, letting his anger guide him.

The door creaks open. Wooden stairs, bracketed by plastic coverings, lead down to a room where the stench of rot is somehow stronger. Nines can see blood coating the floor. Writhing bodies suspended by chains hang in the air. A shadow moves along the floor as he descends. The wails of Ash ringing in his ears.

Nines reaches the basement, Sebastian and the rest of the group right behind him. He rounds the corner and sees just who is responsible for the state of the house.

The man, if one could call him that, is tall. A crest of meticulously stretched bone and skin casts a deep shadow across his scaly face. Orange eyes burn in the pits where they lay. Spines protrude from the Tzimisce’s back, piercing through the blood-red robe that drapes down to the floor.

“So, these are the intruders making a mess of my home.” He speaks with a rolling, Eastern European accent. Nines can’t place it, doesn’t care to. The Tzimisce’s piercing stare flickers over the group, resting on one specific person.

“Ah. You.” Andrei sneers, looking down at Sebastian. “Here I had been hoping the hunters had kept their part of the agreement.” 

“You and I both know they’re poor at keeping promises, Andrei.” Sebastian responds, hand grasping the hilt of the sabre.

The Tzimisce’s gaze flicks down to Sebastian’s hand.

“I see you found his sword.”

“You had no right taking it.”

“And you did? The _laș_ who turned to the Camarilla, dragging his belly against the ground and prostrating himself to those stagnant idiots for decades?” Andrei’s voice rises in volume and intensity as he continues his tirade. Nines watches their exchange, keeping quiet.

“Enough.” Sebastian snaps. “I’m here for answers. We all are.” He gestures to the gathered Kindred, who have begun to circle the Tzimisce.

“You’ve been colluding with the Society of Leopold, stolen the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Even now your shock troops are attacking Anarch territory. For what reason?”

“It is the will of the Sabbat.” Andrei states, straightening his shoulders and peering down at Sebastian. “The Camarilla and Anarchs are stunted; dead and festering in their own shortcomings. All of you are nothing but pawns to the wills of your forebearers. One of the Fathers rests in the Ankaran Sarcophagus.

“You traitors seek to unleash his power, not knowing you will unleash the Reckoning that brings forth Gehenna. When the Sabbat find the den of the Nosferatu, and recover the key, we will prevent Gehenna, and restore order to the city.”

“Bullshit. This is for power, isn’t it? To claim LA for yourself.” Nines steps in, scowling at the Tzimisce, who gives Nines a sneer.

“We won’t bother with diplomacy, Andrei.” Sebastian starts, the surrounding Kindred tensing in anticipation of a fight. Nines sees Andrei’s frill flare out in response, making himself appear taller and more imposing. 

“You failed to weaken the Camarilla and Anarchs, and we will… respond in kind…” Sebastian trails off, eyes widening as he sees something suspended from one of the wooden frames.

He sees the Sheriff.

In his hesitation, Andrei lunges.

It was barely a fight, the Tzimisce lunging at Sebastian’s throat and the group of Kindred jumping to react. In a flash of metal, Sebastian unsheathes his sword and Andrei’s claws shriek along the blade, missing his face and throat. Nines surges forwards, being the closest to Sebastian.

He jabs his bush hook out, hoping to catch on the Tzimisce’s robe or limb. He twists the weapon in his hand and yanks the hook towards his own body. There’s a tear as the hook catches on the Archbishop’s robe.

Andrei rears back, putting distance between himself and Nines, ultimately losing that close-quarters range with Sebastian. The two leaders stand opposed to the Sabbat, weapons raised.

With a scowl, Andrei summons a pack of head-hunters, which pour from the walls and floor. As the monsters lunge, distracting the group, Andrei holds his palm up to the air.

With a furious scowl, Sebastian locks eyes with the Tzimisce as he sinks into the floor in a pool of writhing shadows and vitae. The portal seals itself shut behind Andrei as he disappears, leaving the head-hunters to face the Kindred.

The bloodbath ends with Sebastian catching the final monster in the junction of its jaws and wrenching, bisecting the monster before it exploded in a plume of fine, red mist. The Ventrue growls, scowling at the floor where Andrei had disappeared. The Sarcophagus wasn’t there, either. Never was.

Nines watches as Sebastian stands with rigid shoulders. He raises his hand, placing it on the shorter man. He feels the tension in the muscles underneath the jacket.

“You good?” He asks, watching Sebastian’s expression. The Ventrue doesn’t react, but he doesn’t shrug Nines away, either.

He looks to the hanging Sheriff. Not dead yet, but could be frenzied.

“I will be.” Sebastian mutters, nudging Nines’ hand off him.

The Ventrue stalks up to where the staked Nagloper hangs. The Tzimisce had fused him to the wall, his own ribcage acting as the stake that kept him incapacitated.

With careful motions, Sebastian slowly cuts away the flesh binding the Sheriff. One heavy arm falls after the other, then both legs are freed. The Sheriff’s massive body begins to slump forward, his weight being enough to strain the Vicissitude holding him to the wall.

With a final snap, the Nagloper slumps forward, Sebastian catching him before he could fully collapse on the ground.

With a grunt, the Ventrue hefts his Sheriff up, muttering something in a language Nines doesn’t recognise. Then, with one decisive tug, Sebastian rips the stake from the Nagloper’s chest.

In a violent rush of motion, the Anarchs remaining in the room watch as the Sheriff suddenly jolts forward, massive hand wrapping around Sebastian’s throat. With an audible impact, the Sheriff throws Sebastian to the floor. His eyes are wide, fangs bared in Frenzy.

The other Kindred rush forward to fight the crazed Nagloper, Nines feeling Potence rush through his muscles. But before they can do anything, Sebastian holds up a hand, stopping them.

Nines hears him whisper something to the Sheriff, a name. Repeated over and over, like a desperate chant.

The Sheriff doesn’t let go of Sebastian, but he doesn’t continue attacking, either. After a tense moment of silence, the Sheriff blinks heavily. His face goes lax and he slowly releases Sebastian, standing up and helping his Prince rise.

Sebastian massages his throat, looking around at the mess of the basement. He sighs, looking at the Anarchs. Damsel calls the Hounds to bring Beckett down. Jack and Skelter reload their weapons, talking in low tones. Nines looks at him, expression bordering on poorly concealed concern.

“Well,” Sebastian croaks, as his vitae heals his crushed oesophagus. “That was unpleasant.”

Damsel snorts. "No shit."

* * *

There's a strange, anticlimactic air hanging over the group. They had expected more of a fight from the Archbishop. But perhaps the Tzimisce had recognised he was outnumbered, deciding to cut his losses and escape.

Either way, an unsatisfied pit lodges itself in Nines' stomach. He can't stop thinking about the bed on the third floor. About Ash.

Off to the side, the Sheriff pulls himself back together, literally. Sebastian holds his ribcage in place as the Nagloper pushes curved bones back in. Each crack of realigning bone is punctuated with a deep growl as the Nagloper bites back the pain.

Sebastian frowns in concentration, hands steady despite the vitae beginning to coat them. Nines wonders if he's aided the Sheriff in Vicissitude before.

Nines wasn't entirely sure where to go from here, staring at the basement they'd found themselves in. His gaze eventually settles on the large pit in the side of the wall, plunging downwards.

Nines remembers the Tzimisce's words, about finding the Warrens. And Sebsatian had mentioned Tzimisce monsters in the sewers before. Nines hums, things beginning to click together, before turning back to face the group as they convened around Beckett.

Nines looks down at Beckett’s legs. They’re twisted, like they were the consistency of taffy in Andrei’s hands. One foot had been curled in on itself, the other flattened to a thin layer of cartilage.

Even if Beckett somehow wasn’t in pain from the state of his arms and legs, he wouldn’t be able to move on his own. Let alone live a normal unlife after all this. It must rankle the Independent, who prided himself on his transient nature. His face is twisted up at the realisation that he may be facing an existence reliant on someone else for basic needs.

"You can always stay at the Last Round," Damsel offers, crossing her arms. She speaks in a softer tone than normal, though that's not saying much. "We've got a Thinblood who knows a fair bit of Kindred biology and stuff. She could probably do some kind of physical therapy or... or something." Damsel finishes lamely, as Beckett continues to stare at the ground.

"If it's all the same to you, miss Damsel, I would rather not think about my current predicament." Beckett mutters. The remnants of his hands twitch, like they were trying to clench into fists.

"It's... I've had a long handful of days. I could do with some rest before going on from this." He sounds far wearier than Nines ever thought possible.

Beckett had visited LA before, when the Second Anarch Revoult was in full swing. Nines was still a fledgling at the time, but had the chance to be introduced to the Gangrel by MacNeil. The Independent had exuded an aura of composure and the insufferable superiority most academic types tended to have.

The only thing that stopped Nines from immediately disliking the man was his ability to back up his words with action. It was an admirable quality to any Anarch that was serious about their beliefs. The Gangrel's morals and atrophied heart were in the right places; it was a shame to see him in such a state. 

Nines is about to offer Beckett a place to stay in Hollywood while he healed, when the Sheriff turns to Beckett. Bright, red eyes flick down to his Vicissitude-mutilated legs. The Nagloper makes his way to the group, abdomen fully reformed. He kneels slowly, pointing at Beckett’s legs. Beckett frowns, instinctively cringing away. Sebastian looks over to them.

“He’ll fix your legs, if you let him.” He supplies, staring down at the twisted skin. “I doubt you’ll be able to escape either way, Gangrel.”

Beckett gives Sebastian a sneer, but looks back to the kneeling Sheriff. Judging by the tension running along Beckett's body, he had little desire to experience Vicissitude ever again. But Beckett needs his mobility more than avoiding a moment of pain.

The Gangrel sighs, nodding to the Nagloper.

“Get it over with, then.”

Without hesitation, the Sheriff reaches for the nearest leg. His grey flesh and clawed hands are strangely gentle, turning the limb over as the Sheriff analyses it. After a moment, he begins to work.

Nines has never seen Vicissitude up close, never had the chance to. With one, sure movement the Sheriff grasps Beckett by the ankle, and twists. The sound of popping bone makes Nines wince. Beckett chokes back a pained gasp. His feet are reformed with a grinding sound as tendons, bones, and nerves are restored to their original shape.

Nines watches as the Sheriff, with slow and purposeful movements, continues on to the other leg. His large palm grasps Beckett’s kneecap where it had been dragged to the middle of his shin. With a push, the Sheriff moves it to its original place. Beckett’s leg suddenly snaps, straightening and growing three inches in length. Beckett’s back arches as he lets out a bestial growl from the pain.

The Sheriff backs away, leaving Beckett to work through the pain. He must either be too tired to move on to Beckett's hands, or needs more time. The Sheriff returns to Sebastian’s side, the Prince looking down at the Gangrel’s legs.

“One of your cleaner restorations.” Sebastian hums. The Sheriff looks over at Nines, then back to Sebastian, brow raised.

They must have some way of communicating with each other, because despite the Sheriff not saying anything, Sebastian responds regardless.

“It’s complicated,” he says, dismissively. “I’ll explain everything once we’re out of this hellhole.”

The group gathers in the strange basement, the walls pulsing with jerking movements and seeping strange liquids from enlarged pores. Nines tries not to think about the smell too much. He knows where it’s coming from.

“So,” Damsel starts. “What now?”

They peer down at the old tunnel, rancid air leaking into the room. There’s a faint sound of running water. Sebastian realises with a jolt about why there were Tzimisce monsters in the sewers. They were trying to find the Warrens, and by extension: the key. But then that meant…

“Hey, LaCroix.”

Sebastian sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. Nines had figured it out as well. 

“Don’t say it.”

“I think the Warrens…”

“No.”

“Are in the sewers.”

Sebastian can hear the bastard’s shit eating grin.

He groans. When Sebastian gets his hands on Gary, he’s going to throttle him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeo lmao, been a while. Used to be i'd finish one chapter of this, then a chapter of DB, but rn i want to focus on this fic for a while, so updates Should have less of a gap between them  
> laș - coward
> 
> ik that the bush hook is Expensive ingame, but in real life the most pricey one i saw was, like £89, with most of them going for £30
> 
> ough love the Tzimisce, favourite clan to play as beside Malkavian and Gangrel lmao, so many possibilities for That Good Horror, sorry if i went overboard with the body horror lmao
> 
> from what i've gleaned from the wiki, the little dudes with two legs and big mouths are head hunters and the gross tall boys that shoot green energy are belial, the spider ladies are obvs spiders, all probably count as szlachta and vohzd, but there's so little on them in general that i'm going a bit fast and loose on the specifics here 
> 
> sorry to all you Ash lovers :( it's not that i don't like him, he just has the unfortunate fate of the sacrificial lamb


	9. All Sewer Pipes Lead to The Warrens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lift up the evening  
> Just for a while  
> Backwards, upside down and inside out  
> So hold on or we'll all fall down  
> \- Birthday Suit, Cosmo Sheldrake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general warning for violence and mentions of torture

Nines stares down the tunnel, shrouded by the stretched skin of the basement. The curved rock is jagged, like the head-hunters had been clawing away at the ground for some time. It’s as tall as it is wide; the entrance hanging over Nines’ head with all the assurance of a guillotine blade. He frowns. How long had the Sabbat been tunnelling under their noses?

He sighs, the faint smell of sewage wafting into the room, melding with the scent of putrefying skin. If he listens close enough, he can hear the muscles contracting, hearts incorporated into the walls and ceiling still faintly beating.

Nines remembers Ash. He doesn’t know how to put the poor man out of his misery. Leaving him out for the sunrise would be cruel. Perhaps not as awful as what Ash had already experienced, but it was more than Nines was comfortable with doing to an ally.

And now they’d reached something of a crossroads: the sewers were going to be too cramped for a group as large as theirs to traverse in. And they couldn’t leave Beckett’s protection to Mercurio alone, someone had to get him safe lodgings and in contact with Freya while he healed.

Two or three would be the best size of a group to enter the tunnel. Nines wasn’t going to let any of his Anarchs go in his stead, either. People went missing, when the sewers were involved.

The Hounds had been sent away first, helping Beckett up the stairs. Skelter, uncomfortable with leaving the Last Round unguarded for so long, went soon after. Damsel had almost bit off Skelter’s head when the Gangrel told her to come back to Downtown with him.

It took both Nines and Skelter to convince Damsel it would be best for all of them if she was back at the Last Round, in case Andrei decided to repay the favour and invade their domain. And Damsel hated closed, cramped spaces; the sewers were just that, as added by Sebastian.

Jack had patted Damsel on the shoulder as he left the basement behind Skelter. Nines was surprised Jack’s hand was still attached when he pulled away, considering the look Damsel gave him.

With a final goodbye, the two Anarchs left Nines to the tunnels. Damsel, about to climb the stairs, turns to look over at Nines.

“This is just the beginning, isn’t it?”

It started the night a Molotov cocktail was thrown through the Last Round’s window. But Nines knows what she means. The news of Ash was going to hit the Anarchs hard, and it was only right if Nines broke it to Isaac and Velvet first.

So, he nods. “Yeah. Sorry you can't come with us this time ‘round, but there'll be other chances to bash some Sabbat brains in."

Another war was picking itself together in Los Angeles. Nines would hate the city for being so contentious, if war wasn’t what his bloodline sang for. He wanted Andrei to feel the same pain as Ash. Wanted De Mer to suffer worse than Nines himself did. He felt anger like the crack of a bear’s maw stretching open, low grumble destined to become an ear-ringing roar.

Damsel nods in response. She’d been Embraced after the Second Revolt that established the Anarch Free State; she never knew what it was like to really fight other Kindred on such a large scale. He’d feel pity for what was in store for her, if Nines didn’t know Damsel would thrive on the battlefield.

She was Brujah; dead fire ran in their vitae. Zealots and agitators. If the Ventrue maintained order from their ivory towers, then it was the Brujah’s job to shake the cage down on the ground. Nines huffs out a laugh. If Andrei attacked the Last Round expecting an easy fight, he’ll be sorely mistaken.

Damsel nods, frowning in thought. She seems to come to some kind of conclusion, straightening and clenching the handrail.

“Nines?” She starts, tone strangely unsure. Damsel’s eyes flick over to Sebastian, who is speaking with the Sheriff in a quiet, one-sided conversation.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get yourself killed, asshole.” She adds the last part in like a second thought, to make up for the uncharacteristic softness in her voice.

“You say the Anarchs here don’t have a leader, but everyone looks up to you, man. You, Isaac, and Jack are the only Anarchs I know from the revolution days who’re still around. That… that means something, to us younger ones.”

Nines bites the inside of his cheek, hiding his frown with a nod. He’d looked up to MacNeil, in the same way Damsel does him. Only problem was that hero worship turned pretty damn sour when MacNeil fled to San Jose, during the Kuei-jin’s invasion. Dumping the Anarchs in Nines’ lap as he ran out the door.

It feels wrong to call himself their leader. Goes against everything the Anarchs should stand for. But Isaac had only been interested in maintaining Hollywood, and any other veteran Anarch was either dead, or missing. Someone had to step up. In the end, it fell to Nines.

Nines had yet to claim the Barony of Downtown, never truly intended to. But he knew what the other Anarchs thought of him for rejecting the title. Maybe it made him a bad leader. Not like there was anyone to guide him on these kinds of things. Nines was never meant for the boardroom, never had a mind for politics or strategy; he’d earned his stripes fighting alongside his Anarchs.

Nines doesn’t reply as he becomes lost in thought, letting the silence hang between them. Damsel watches him for a moment longer, before turning to Sebastian.

“Hey, Frenchie.” She starts, nodding to the Ventrue.

Sebastian sighs heavily, turning away from the Sheriff. “What.”

“You fight pretty good – y’know, for a cape.”

“I assume I should take that as a compliment?”

“See to it that you do.” She smirks, heading up the stairs.

"Don't get Nines killed, or I'm getting your ass.” Are Damsel’s last words to the Prince before the door clicks shut behind her. 

“I think she’s warming up to you,” Nines remarks. He sees Sebastian huff out a laugh and shake his head.

They’re alone now in the basement, save for the Sheriff’s steady presence. The silence settles around them, Nines blocking out the sounds of the mansion. They turn to face the tunnel once more, cloying darkness taunting them with the promise of a good fight. If he listens closely enough, Nines can swear he hears the faint sound of rushing water. 

Despite the complaining, Nines knew Sebastian would follow him into the sewers even before he sent the Hounds away. They had started this venture, and neither were going to ditch the other just yet. Nines may not be so sure of the longevity of their factions’ alliance, but he knew the Ventrue was stubborn enough to see this through to the end.

Nines turns to Sebastian, whose nose is wrinkled at the smell and memory of the place.

“So,” Nines starts, giving Sebastian a half-smile. “Are you gonna jump in first, or should I?”

* * *

Before Beckett lets himself be loaded into the car by those overbearing Hounds, the smell of smoke catches his attention. Looking out into the Hills, he sees dark plumes of smoke meld with the night sky. And there in the distance, the crackling orange and yellow of a house on fire pulses against the Los Angeles cityscape.

He frowns, before ducking into the truck. As the ignition sputters to life, Beckett watches it burn, Beast on edge from the sight of the fire. The blaze disappears behind the Hills, as the car turns onto the highway.

Beckett blinks away the flashing lights left by the bright yellow and oranges of the fire. The lack of wailing sirens and fire-engines tearing down the highway was strange, but his hands pulsed with such agony that he struggled to focus on it. Beckett sighs, moving his sore ankles and knees. He lets the sound of tyre rolling on top of tarmac rumble over him as he closes his eyes.

The house could burn for all he cared. The smell of rotting flesh still lingers in his nostrils. His hands ache. The fire rages. Beckett is tired.

* * *

The sewers are a maze of anachronism, foul smell, and moist stone. The tunnels from the thirties collide with ones built in the nineties. The old, crumbling remains of eighteenth century piping finds itself surrounded by the industrial grates of the two-thousands.

The haze of dying, incandescent light bulbs buzz alongside their LED counterparts. Faint green light stretches across several distinct tile patterns that poorly transition from one decade to the next.

Unique species of rats collect along the shadows of the old tunnels, scurrying away at the sound of fighting as the three Kindred slaughter their way through the twists and turns of mortal engineering.

Nines swings his bush hook, hitting a head-hunter in the side of its face with deadly accuracy, the tip of the hook jutting out its mouth as he smashes it into the sewer walls. The creature howls, blood splattering up the tiles and onto the ceiling as it dies.

He turns in time to see Sebastian twist his sword in his grip, blade lying parallel to his forearm. The Ventrue slashes outwards, slicing through the leg of a charging head-hunter, sending it flying off the course of its lunge. The creature shrieks as the Sheriff catches it in one hand, crushing it with an iron grip. 

Sebastian nods to the Sheriff, before taking out a handkerchief with a flick of his wrist. He wipes the gore off the blade before sheathing it. The Sheriff was missing his infamous sword, instead making do with Vicissitude-enhanced talons that ran up his hands like skeletal spurs. No one had offered him a weapon. He didn’t need one.

If there had been a need to, the heavy breathing of the Kindred would have echoed down the winding tunnels, melding with the dripping and buzzing that surrounds them. But as is their nature, the three Kindred are eerily silent after the vicious fight.

The tunnels seem to close in on them, no sign of escape. No chance to leave should the need arise. A casket of stone and sewage, sprawling out underneath the cities. The caretakers were rats, and the dead wandered as they pleased.

And now, Nines found himself traversing them with his once-enemies-turned-allies. There was some kind of irony to that; maybe if MacNeil were still around, he’d have something poetic to say about it.

Time moved differently here, no rules for it to follow like above ground. They could have been in the sewers for minutes, or hours, Nines couldn't tell. It was a good thing he wasn’t a claustrophobic man, even in life.

The head-hunters worked in packs, one leading them round a corner, where two or three more were waiting to pounce. Nines had quickly caught on to the tactic, slowing down and winding up his swing as the monster vanished around a corner. His bush hook had halted several lunges mid-air with that method.

There’s a thrilling satisfaction to the crunch of bone shattering under his swings. It runs up Nines’ arms with every impact, warm blood beginning to speckle his hands and forearms. Be it his Beast bleeding into his actions and thoughts, but Nines needed this after the monastery, after De Mer. After Ash.

Sebastian sighs heavily once more. In the gaps between scrapes with the lurking Tzimisce monsters, he had been doing that quite often. Obviously the Ventrue wasn’t enjoying himself in the maze of sewers. Nines sees some kind of black, wet, and lumpy creature crawl up the wall and into a pipe. He doesn’t blame the Prince.

“This damned place never ends,” Sebastian mutters, head swivelling as he peers down the different tunnels. “One would think the mortals, or even the Nosferatu, would have put up signs.”

“Doubt many humans come down here, anymore,” Nines replies.

They’d seen the eviscerated corpse of some investigator, near where they entered the sewers. But other than that, they were alone with the Sabbat monsters.

“And the Nos probably know this place like the backs of their hands. It’d be redundant for there to be signs pointing them to the Warrens, considering how secretive they are about it.”

Sebastian’s response to that is a glare and a huff. “You know what I meant,” he mutters. Nines rolls his eyes.

He sees the Sheriff look between them, face impassive. The Nagloper, unsurprisingly, doesn’t say anything. But Nines swears the Sheriff squints as he looks down at Nines. An unspoken question, or something more malicious? For now, Nines ignores it.

They continue through a tunnel that slopes downwards, water rushing under their feet. In the glint of the emergency lights, Nines can see it glimmer in between the bars of the metal grate.

"So, what's with the sword?" Nines asks, as the Sheriff forces a metal gate up, rusted gears squealing from disuse. They duck under it and the Sheriff lets it fall with a loud clang. 

Sebastian looks to him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me to return it to Andrei? Is that some secret tenet of the Anarchs: thou shalt not steal?" 

Nines gives him a look, half tempted to swat the Ventrue over the head. With the red gaze of the Sheriff drilling a hole in Nines' skull, though, it may not be a good idea.

“No," he says flatly. "But you looked more than interested in some curio when you saw that sword.” Sebastian's hand clenches around the hilt of the sabre. “It means something to you and that Tzimisce.” _So what’s so important about it?_ He lets the unspoken question hang in the air between them.

Sebastian pauses, eyes flicking up to Nines. He turns to the Sheriff, who shrugs apathetically. The Ventrue sighs.

“How much do you know of the Sabbat?” He asks, after a moment of silence, his voice strangely quiet.

“Probably the normal amount – they’re diablerists, headed by the Lasombra and Tzimisce, and wholly opposed to the blood bond,” Nines responds, shrugging.

The Sabbat hadn’t been as prevalent an enemy in LA like the Kuei-jin and Camarilla; Nines never had to learn anything in-depth about the sect. Sebastian nods slowly as he says this, looking into the middle ground. He speaks, tone softer than Nines was familiar with.

“And there are some of the Camarilla clans who join the Sabbat, known as _antitribu_. My…”

Sebastian sighs, tilting the sabre to examine the red stone in the hilt. His dour reflection peers back.

“My sire was a Ventrue _antitribu_. This was his kilij.” Sebastian looks up to face Nines for the first time during this conversation. 

“He was Sabbat. And so was I.”

The confession echoes down the sewers, bouncing off the curved brick with a hollow sound. Nines forces himself to relax, after instinctually tensing up. He chokes down the knee-jerk response to growl, the Sabbat weren’t loved by any of the factions. And if what he’s heard from Jack is true, that hatred is deserved.

Nines takes in a breath and remembers who is talking to him right now. He can trust Sebastian, at least somewhat.

There was a strange fragility to Sebastian’s tone. Not exaggerated enough for Nines to think he was putting it on. More like he was being genuine. Something stirs in Nines’ chest. He nods at Sebastian, refusing to look away. The Ventrue takes the cue and shakily continues.

“It’s common knowledge that I was made a Kindred shortly after the Battle of Waterloo. I had proven myself to my sire before my Embrace, giving me the right to become a True Sabbat. I was trained to be a Templar by his side. Obviously, that didn’t happen,” Sebastian remarks gesturing around them with a wave, surrounded by the scattered gore of defeated Sabbat monsters.

“We had…” The Ventrue trails off, mouth downturned and brows pinched together at the memory. “More than a few disagreements. They rarely ended without some form of weapon being drawn.

“Eventually, one thing led to another, and I found myself joining the Camarilla. They gave me protection from the Sabbat’s forces; once I provided them with classified information, and offered up my services as a scourge in any city they would assign me to.”

"How generous of them." Nines drawls, unsurprised. "Why didn't you join the Anarchs? We would've taken you in without all those strings attached." Probably. The thought of Sebastian as an Anarch doesn't feel as ridiculous as it would have two weeks ago. 

"This was long before the Second Revolt, Nines." Sebastian replies softly. "I didn't want to die again, and the Camarilla is the only faction that matches the Sabbat in power." 

They fall quiet once more, steps falling into a shared rhythm. 

"How do you know Andrei? Guy wasn’t exactly happy to see you, either.”

“He was the Priest at the time, the one responsible for the spiritual wellbeing of the pack. My sire’s pack. The kilij was a gift from Andrei. They shared a Viniculum; quite a high level one - if the rumours were to be believed.”

“Shared? Something happen to your sire?”

Their shadows dance down the hall, the hollow sound of their footsteps over the grate ringing out into the darkness in front of them.

“He was killed by the Society of Leopold. As was most of his pack,” Sebastian remarks, stone-faced.

“Oh.” Nines replies, barely above a whisper. He watches Sebastian’s face, which had tensed into something more neutral than it was a few moments ago.

“Were you…” Nines grimaces, feeling awkward discomfort lodge in his throat. “Do you… miss him? Or are you happy the guy’s dead?”

The Ventrue huffs out a choked laugh.

“Does it matter? He’s ash, now. Has been for decades,” Sebastian replies, smiling bitterly.

They fall quiet once more, finding their way through a pipe down to the lower levels. The head-hunters find hiding spots in the drainage pipes, beady black eyes glimmering in the emergency lighting.

Nines and Sebastian, at one point, find themselves back-to-back, fending off head-hunters attacking from all sides. The Sheriff is still on the level above them, caught off guard by a monstrous looking creature Sebastian called a belial.

They find a strange synergy in their fighting styles, Sebastian’s more defensive abilities complimenting Nines’ offensive ones. Maybe if they had been less experienced, or alone, these head-hunters would have posed a real threat.

Nines presses his lips together tightly, keeping the gore out of his mouth as another head-hunter bursts into embers and blood. Now, they were just annoyances. He looks around them, listening to both the fighting going on above, and the growls of lingering monsters waiting for them to come too close to the tunnels they crouched in.

As the fighting dies down, dying screeches ringing out on both levels, Sebastian finally speaks up once more.

“I never mentioned it, but... thank you. For being understanding. About my heritage.” He tells Nines in a stilted manner. Something tells Nines he hasn’t been able to say that to others in the past.

The Sheriff’s heavy footsteps smack against the concrete floor as the Nagloper jumps down to the lower level where Nines and Sebastian wait. Nines doesn’t turn around to look at him – he finds himself looking into Sebastian’s eyes, the softness of gratitude and an awkward smile dulling the edges of the man’s face. It’s strangely endearing, and Nines gives him a crooked smile.

“You carried me through twenty-odd miles of sewage,” he replies, shrugging. “It’d be pretty low of me to give you shit for being Sabbat in the past.”

Sebastian chuckles.

“You’d be surprised how often it happens, then.” The Ventrue waves off Nines’ concerned look. “But if you could do both of us a favour, and keep that information to yourself, I would… certainly appreciate it. My time as a Sabbat doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in others. I would rather my past affiliations not be shouted from the rooftops.”

“I’m not a sneak, Sebastian.” Nines replies, using the Ventrue’s given name out loud for the first time. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Sebastian blinks, looking up at Nines, then the Sheriff. The Nagloper gives Nines one nod, Nines figures in approval, before both continue further into the treatment plant.

Nines watches them for a moment before following after, quelling the strange rush of emotions in his chest. He doesn’t mind how Sebastian’s name felt on his tongue when he said it.

* * *

“What’s the Sheriff’s deal?” Nines asks, as they clamber through the strange amalgam of pipes and metal walkways that makes what appears to be a control room.

Thick, waterproofed electronics and pump controls hum in the din of rushing water. Powered by an unseen generator that spits jolts of electricity at the damp ground below.

Sebastian’s eyes flick over to him. “Ask the man yourself,” he says, gesturing to the tunnel where the Sheriff had swum into to check out the different drainage pipes. They’d reached a dead end, and it seemed the only option now was to swim. Nines was just thankful it was relatively clean water.

“Very funny.”

“He does talk, you know.” Now it’s Nines’ turn to give Sebastian a look. “It’s not as if the Sabbat cut out his tongue or severed his vocal cords. He’s simply a man of few words.”

“Few? Try none. I don’t know anyone in LA who’s heard that guy speak.”

“It’s not like they’ve had a chance to, he’s my Sheriff, he’s meant to stay relatively silent. The less people hear from him, the better.”

“You know that’s fucked up, right?”

“Pardon?”

“He’s still a person.”

“He has his duty. Believe it or not, the Sheriff accepted the role of his own volition.”

Nines rolls his eyes. _Fuckin’ Camarilla_.

“How’d you even meet? You two aren’t exactly a matching pair.” 

LaCroix looks up from the computer he’d been tapping away at, carefully watching the pump controls so the Sheriff wasn’t going to be eviscerated by the propellor blades.

“You’re full of questions tonight.” He mutters. Nines shrugs, the metal bars he sits against digging into his back.

“Not like there’s anything else to do in between fights. This place is a fucking maze.”

“It is certainly convoluted enough to rival that of a Malkavian’s mind.” Sebastian remarks. “I had gotten to see the plans for the original sewers when I first came to Los Angeles. They seem to connect the significant territories together. It makes me wonder if the first Kindred to claim the city had a hand in that.”

Nines hums, it would make sense – a network of structures guaranteed to keep out the sun and hide Kindred form Kine. Apparently most sewer systems were too small for people to traverse through, but these ones could even facilitate the Sheriff’s impressive height. He looks up at Sebastian once more.

“And what about you and the Sheriff? Heard the Laibon rarely leave the African continent. So what’s one doing with the Camarilla in Los Angeles?”

“This again?” Sebastian scoffs, facing Nines. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

Nines gives him a smirk and a raised brow. “You don’t seem to mind.”

The Ventrue’s eyes widen a fraction. He sputters, clearing his throat before replying.

“He had joined my sire’s pack around the same time the Society of Leopold set eyes on us. We’d gotten along well enough. The others didn’t seem to care for the Nagloper - they are often outcast by the other Laibon, as well - and I had recently fallen out of favour with my sire at the time. So, two outcasts found camaraderie in their situations.

“When he was faced with the option of joining me, or staying with what remained of the pack, he decided to throw his lot in with the Camarilla as well.” Sebastian concludes with a far off look, gaze drifting to the lower floor.

The Ventrue had grown more prone to losing himself in thought. Perhaps all the talk about his past was dredging up old memories. Nines follows his line of sight and sees the Sheriff heave himself out of the water.

“So, this whole thing is just a business relationship?” Nines remarks. Sebastian shakes out of his reverie.

“Yes? Why.” He squints at the Brujah.

Nines smirks. Jack and Damsel owe him ten dollars each.

“Oh, nothing important.” Nines replies. “Just that more than a couple people are going to be surprised by the lack of illicit affairs on Venture Tower’s penthouse floor. If you know what I’m saying.”

“ _What_.” Sebastian snaps through a clenched jaw.

Nines chokes back a chuckle. “More than a couple rumours, about what goes on between you two in private, have been floating about.”

“What rumo- no. I don’t want to hear it.” Sebastian sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s nothing going on between me and the Sheriff. How _inappropriate_ that would be…” The Ventrue trails off, muttering darkly about propriety or something equally as stuffy.

Nines won’t admit it, but he feels a strange sense of relief at that. He ignores it, as the Sheriff reports back to Sebastian; somehow conveying what he discovered through a series of expressions and Sebastian asking ‘yes or no’ questions.

They swim through a churning maze of underwater pipes that eventually empty out into a lower level of the sewers, deeper than the rest. Nines can almost feel the rock and concrete hanging above them.

Sebastian climbs out of the water first, helping Nines up as the Brujah emerges from the submerged tunnel. Nines is too concerned with looking for lurking belial and head-hunters to catch Sebastian staring at his chest, where the sopping, white t-shirt clings to him. Sebastian thanks Caine that Kindred can’t blush, looking away before Nines realises where his line of vision is pointed.

He sees the Sheriff’s judgemental look and ducks his head, striding out in front of both men towards the treatment plant. He hears water spatter the floor as Nines wrings out his wet clothes and has to physically stop himself from watching. Damn Anarchs and their translucent shirts.

* * *

The creatures seemed to grow more horrific, the further in they went. The sewers more decrepit. The smells worse. Nines remembers falling into torpor at some point. Or did he? He isn’t sure how much time he’s spent down here – no real way to tell. They work towards their objective with no true idea of where it is, bringing down any Tzimisce monster standing in their way regardless.

It was more humid down here, precipitation clinging to Nines’ sinuses in an uncomfortable way. He’d heard of some Kindred getting infections from the kinds of fungi that thrived in cold, wet environments. The toxins and hyphae eventually driving them into a permanent Frenzy. Nines makes sure to dry himself out thoroughly if… _once_ he gets out of this damned place.

* * *

“Twelve-thousand square kilometres of land in the county, and Gary chooses the sewers to live in.” Sebastian mutters darkly, climbing up a metal ladder with large scabs of orange rust on the rungs.

“Not like there’s a plethora of hidden, pre-built structures in LA.” Nines responds.

Nines holds out a hand to help him up. Sebastian pauses, almost surprised, before taking it in his own. The rust passes between them, and stains Nines’ palm a ruddy colour. He wipes it off on his jeans.

“He could have at least chosen somewhere that didn’t smell as foul.”

“Think that’s why he chose it, Seb.”

The Ventrue makes a disgusted face.

“ _Seb_?”

“I’m too fucking tired to say all the syllables in your name.”

Nines swears he sees the Sheriff’s shoulders shake in a silent laugh. Sebastian whips round to glare at the Nagloper. A look is exchanged between them, a communication Nines is once again not privy to.

“Hmph. I’ll tolerate it. For now.”

Nines' jaw cracks as he yawns. “Yeah, whatever."

* * *

The bush hook was beginning to be cumbersome. Blisters and sores that form from the excessive use of the weapon immediately heal over. The callouses from before his Embrace remain. Leftovers from a lifetime of manual labour.

Nines often wonders what would have happened to him, if he hadn’t’ve been Embraced. Probably would’ve been sent off to die in a proxy war against the Communists. Probably would have had to marry a woman and have children, as to avoid being found out and ostracised. Probably would have worked himself into an early, arthritic grave with lungs full of asbestos and skin tainted with lead.

America didn’t care about its Americans. Probably still doesn’t. It’s that reminder that keeps Nines passionate, stops him from falling into a despair. He didn’t have time to wallow in the unfairness of the system, not when he could still fight against it. But now Nines has been had to remind himself that Sebastian is a _part_ of that system.

The man has had a better track record than his predecessor, Don Sebastian, thus far. Not as ignorant, and not some puppet for an elder. But it’s only been a handful of months. The Ventrue had managed to hold his position against all odds, and now Nines was more than a little interested to see if he could maintain it.

LA might finally have a moment of peace, after all this, if they could figure out some kind of treaty between the Anarchs and Camarilla. Maybe even drive out the Sabbat, hunters, and Kuei-jin for good. The thought fills Nines with something that could be hope. Maybe if Sebastian proves himself to be as trustworthy a leader as he is in a fight.

For now, Nines watches the Ventrue. He waits.

* * *

It was with a strange feeling of finality, that they fight the largest monster in the sewers. The behemoth, surrounded by corpses and skeletons in varying degrees of decomposition, seemed to have been waiting for them to appear.

Crawling along the pipes with its numerous, dextrous hands, it watched the Kindred with a predatory gaze. Its eyes glittered with a strange awareness and intelligence, like it had lived long enough to gain some form of conscious thought.

It looks like a Tzimisce spider, but it was much larger and more intricate. Protective spines run along its flank and extra sets of arms perched on its back. Three pairs of yellow eyes had focused on the three as they approached it, weapons drawn. The fight started when Sebastian shot the pipe beside its face; blowing hot steam into its eyes and blinding it. The creature had let out a shriek that made Nines’ throat and chest ache from the vibrations.

The thing fell. But instead of collapsing onto the ground, it managed to cling to the underside of a metal platform. Its weeping eyes blinked open, refocusing on them. Pushing off with its eight powerful legs, the spider charged in a flesh of red and beige. The Sheriff had immediately put himself between Sebastian and the spider. Catching its open snarl with talons he’d extended and thickened to take the brunt of the blow. Its hooked fangs had caught around the talons, jaw stretched open uncomfortably.

Before he could decapitate the spider, though, a set of arms curled tightly against its chest had shot out; bone spurs slashing a large chunk out of the Sheriff. The Nagloper had stepped back with a grunt, bracing against the spider’s increasingly powerful push, both hands braced against its face.

Sebastian had jumped out of the way of its lunge. Before he could begin attacking the creature, Nines handed him a grenade he’d grabbed from Damsel’s glovebox. When Sebastian shot him a confused frown, Nines pointed to the spider’s open, convulsing ribcage. It was still technically alive, under all the vitae and Vicissitude.

Without saying a word, Sebastian caught on to what he was saying. So, with Nines laying down suppressive fire from the gun Sebastian handed him, and the Sheriff holding it in place, the Ventrue had charged the spider.

The green flash of Fortitude surrounded Sebastian, as he ran and slid under the spider’s torso. The pull ring and safety lever flew off to the side, metal glinting in the faint light, as Sebastian thrust his arm up into the creature’s thoracic cavity.

It shrieked, as his hand and the grenade disappeared into the red, twitching mess. Not a moment later the ground beneath it was sprayed with blood as the grenade went off.

Nines had almost felt a tangible relief seeing Sebastian duck away from the flailing creature unharmed, Fortitude absorbing the blast. The spider’s moment of distraction let the three Kindred make quick, messy work of it. It finally died, amputated limbs still twitching around it as the Sheriff crushes its skull with one final stomp.

Its gurgling cry cuts short, as the spider falls limp at last. Nines would hate to think what it would be like fighting it alone. The thing was fast and brutal, the numerous bodies of its victims attesting to that.

Sebastian shakes the gore off his arm with a faint look of disgust, watching the ashes and bones begin to burn away.

“That thing was certainly Andrei’s handiwork.” He remarks. Nines walks up to him, handing back Sebastian’s .357 magnum.

“You can tell?” He asks.

“He’s always had a flair for the dramatic. It had often shone through in his Vicissitude.” The Ventrue takes back his gun with a nod of thanks.

“There can be different styles to that Discipline?”

“Most who use it consider it an art form.” Sebastian explains. “And so, it tends to take shapes unique to the user.”

He gestures to the Nagloper, who is throwing the corpses into the channels below. “The Sheriff is more utilitarian, and in recent years has focused more on restoring, than altering. You saw his work with Beckett. Once we’ve left this place, he should be able to restore the historian’s hands. They won’t be the same, but they’ll be functional. And he’ll be able to use shape change without experiencing enough agony to drive him into Frenzy.”

“That can happen?”

Sebastian nods grimly.

“Beckett is not the first Gangrel Andrei has gotten his hands on.” He replies, mouth tightening. “He’s always been quite… interested in how other clans and their disciplines react to Vicissitude's mutilations.”

Nines makes a noise in the back of his throat. That reminds him another sadistic piece of shit. They’d probably get along, all things considered. Trade torture stories or whatever those kinds of people do.

Nines sighs, as the ashes of the spider scatter against the concrete. It smells of rot, the old bodies of investigators, and police officers, and homeless people thrown into the sewers by the Sheriff. Preserving the Masquerade, as always.

“C’mon,” he says, gesturing to the vent in the side of the wall. “Let’s keep moving. This place is starting to get to me.”

* * *

Nines was really starting to get sick and tired of all these goddamned monsters. By the time they'd reached the large control room and swiped the access card taken from a pile of ashes, Nines was ready to tear his hair out. When the large seal slowly opened, revealing a deep pipe that seemed to drop into nothingness, he’d groaned alongside Sebastian.

Carefully, as not to plummet the many meters into the unknown, Nines, Sebastian, and the Sheriff made the tedious trip down the tunnel, using the outcropping pipes as ledges. Sebastian's muttered grumbling had become full blown, petulant curses grunted out in French and English as he dropped down each pipe. The Sheriff fell two or three metres at a time, heavy boots clanging with the metal each time. 

After what felt like hours, they stood circled around the opening in the pipe. If Nines squinted, he could see water below. The smell of wetness, but not sewage, drafted up on a breeze. Nines couldn't see where it could be coming from, the underground lake must be close to the surface for there to be wind, no matter how faint. Nines' head aches trying to figure out the possibility of that, considering the depths he must have dropped down to. 

Sebastian turns to the Sheriff.

"Fancy a dive?" He asks.

The Sheriff looks down at the water, tearing off a piece of rusted pipe in one quick yank. It drops from his clawed hand and falls for about four seconds, before hitting the water with a faint plop.

The Sheriff nods faintly, then leans over the grate. With a final look to Sebastian and Nines, he jumps down. Four seconds later, a larger plash can be heard. Nines can faintly see the Nagloper's head bobbing along the surface as the Sheriff swims towards something. Sebastian makes a sound in his throat, straightening in preparing to jump. Nines stands as well, the grate groaning under their combined weight.

“You ready?” Nines asks, holding out his hand.

Sebastian looks down at it, then to the water below. He sighs, clasping it.

“No.” He grouses. “This is going to ruin another set of clothes.”

They look over the edge together, water strangely still. It glimmers underneath a light source they can’t see.

“I’m sure you’ll live.” Nines replies.

And they jump.

* * *

The mansion is a twisted, gothic mimicry of a real home. Whispers tingle along the spine of Inquisitor De Mer as she stalks through the hallways. There are bloodstains spattering the walls, remnants of the dispatched vampire thralls that attacked them upon their intrusion.

They had reached the abandoned house some days ago now. De Mer guiding what remained of the hunters to the address; simply citing her ‘sources’ as to how she knew it was there. She wasn't such a fool as to tell Bach who exactly told her of the place. 

Upon arriving, they found it wasn't as abandoned as originally thought. No matter. Most of the occupants were too distracted by their delusions to realise they were being attacked. The others too weak or injured to truly fight back. She wonders what experiments the vampire was running on them, and if he had made any notes that she could peruse.

De Mer wipes the vampire blood, the vitae, off her hands with a rag. There was only one true vampire in this place. A strange man, who knew things about De Mer no one alive today should even be aware of.

He spoke in circles with a barbed tongue; prying secrets from under their skin as they ripped out his nails. More than once, she'd had to send a hunter out as the man's pointed words goaded them into rageful fury. Maybe if De Mer were less of a patient woman, she too would have fallen prey to the attempts, and killed the vampire before he broke.

But the transcription of this ‘Alistair Grout's’ interrogation was evidence of her persistence. It was nothing she didn’t know already, but she finally had a reliable source to present this information to Bach and their higher ups. There were vampires in Hollywood, in Downtown, in the sewers. They had warring factions, they had bloodlines. Entire cultures growing like an infection does in the body.

Maybe if De Mer were younger, she would have been startled by the depth of this infestation. But there's a grudging respect one must have for them, like one should the cockroach and its ability to survive.

But could they truly be made parallel to pests, with abilities such as their own? Incredible strength, mind control, resilience, even the ability to turn invisible. They had long since piqued De Mer's interest, the first night she encountered a vampire in its savage glory.

Perhaps it was her non-religious beliefs, and time in GIGN, but no other hunter seemed as interested in the vampires as she was. They were more invested in killing them on the spot than wishing to study them. If they did, they kept quiet about it.

Either way, De Mer often wondered which side was the winning one. Undead creatures who controlled the world from the shadows with powers beyond one's wildest dreams, or Catholics?

Perhaps it was this inner conflict that had led to her first correspondence with the creature that called himself Andrei.

She had yet to hear back from the liaison after the attack on the monastery. The raid had come earlier than De Mer expected, but it was a truly brutal show of power.

The strange monsters of twisted flesh, pulling themselves form the smoke and shadows. Moving with all the smooth brutality of an apex predator. Enlarged features meant to rip and tear at anything that got too close, regardless of material.

She closes her eyes and sees when a bipedal monster had pounced on a comrade and tore his throat out in one quick motion. The blood was hot as it spattered against her face. Before De Mer could react, it had continued to attack the rest of the hunters. 

It was terrible. It was _beautiful_.

The double doors squeal open, as Bach pushes out of the office. It was the only place in the house with a landline. He looks more drawn than usual, white gauze still pasted along his neck and back from where falling beams had burned the hunter.

De Mer was somewhat disappointed in his survival, but even she had heard legends of his uncanny ability to survive. Perhaps it was this True Faith she'd often hear some hunters reference. Not that De Mer would know of it, she was a consultant primarily. Only joining the Society of Leopold when they offered immunity from certain judicial branches.

"What did the Provincials say then?" De Mer asks, as Bach passes her with no more than a second glance. She follows him, straightening from where she was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Their combat boots hit against the tiles with a sharp sound that echoes down the winding halls. "What of recruits?"

"Seven more are due to arrive by the end of this week." Bach replies in a muted voice. In three days, then. Talking seemed to strain the burns that licked across his neck and up onto his jaw, forcing Bach to speak while moving his face as little as possible. 

"And have they provided any insight on where we should strike first?" De Mer prods, seeing Bach's eyes flick over to hers dangerously. The old man may be able to silence his hunters with a look, but De Mer fought, tortured, and dissected the undead for too often to be made timid by a simple stare. "The vampires have been rumoured to be attacking apartments and clubs in recent nights. Actively killing people who get in their way."

"You think I am unaware of such things, De Mer?" Bach snaps. "You were the one who brought this to the Provincial's attention. They trust that our own judgement will be sufficient in these matters."

"So they have washed their hands of us, then. Typical." De Mer drawls. The muscles in Bach’s jaw tense as he grinds his teeth.

"I suggest you do not speak foully of our superiors, Inquisitor. They may have been lenient on you during your time as a consultant, but as a member of our order, you must regard them with the respect they demand." Bach responds, in that self-righteous way the older hunters tended to speak. De Mer stops herself from sneering

"Of course, Brother." She says, instead. De Mer has done this song and dance of hierarchy and formalities before.

They make their way up the stairs; the top steps are noticeably steeper than the bottom ones and had caused several hunters to trip already. 

"We will make our move to Hollywood," Bach starts, staring out a window to the sprawling view of night-time Los Angeles.

The Venture Tower is still noticeable, though the explosives employed in the attack on the building had caused significant structural damage. 

“The conflict between the vampires has surely weakened them. I will leave information gathering up to you, as we wait for reinforcements to arrive. Find their strongholds, De Mer. I do not wish to waste any more energy with these _interrogations_. I lost yet another chance to finally put LaCroix out of his misery. I will not lose another. We will strike as the Society of Leopold always has. With power, and with precision.”

“Of course, Brother.” De Mer ignores the slight directed her way. There was a blaze of fervour in Bach’s eyes, anticipation running lines of tension across the hunter’s shoulders.

Bach was becoming increasingly unbearable to work with - still obsessed with that vampire who couldn’t stomach animal blood. He could manage human blood just fine, judging by the mess left of young Hugo.

De Mer found little desire to dissuade him from this fixation, though. He would be too focused on his goal, to look any deeper into just how De Mer had captured Rodriguez and LaCroix in the first place. Bach had shown signs of suspicion towards De Mer’s methods of capture, before the monastery was attacked.

With his senses clouded by both pain and obsession, De Mer would be much freer to carry out the second phase of the plan.

“And what do you propose we do to this place, Brother?” De Mer questions, staring at the checkerboard tile ceiling.

“Burn it.” Bach spits out. “This den is only good for kindling.”

“Of course, Brother.” She replies, pushing off from the wall.

A shame, the strange character of the place had begun to grow on her. But De Mer has prided herself on her lack of sentimentality. This placed could burn, for all she cared.

But the fires could wait. For now, De Mer waits for night to fall. There was a call she had to make. Perhaps then, the flesh-crafter could bring certain things to light.

* * *

Water shoots up Nines' nose as he plunges down into the subterranean lake. The rush of cold water surrounds him, purging away the remnants of the sewer in one quick swipe. He feels Sebastian's hand tighten around his own before both men let go and swim to the top, before their heavy corpses drag them down to the bottom.

He breaches the surface, spitting out the metallic tasting water as he splashed towards the lights. Nines’ hands come into contact with honest-to-god gravel and soil. He claws his way out of the water, slumping down in a wet heap. He hears Sebastian and the Sheriff do the same off to the side.

Nines cracks his eyes open and sees a cavernous ceiling dotted with hanging lights illuminating the stalagmites. Faint whispers and moving shadows shift out the corners of his vision. 

Before Nines can get his bearings, he hears a saccharine voice purr its way out of the numerous caverns dotting the man-made shore.

“Well, well, well. Look what the sewer rats dragged in.”

A tall figure pulls itself from the shadows. Nines pushes himself into a sitting position, Sebastian craning his head to give the figure a glare.

“Gary.” The Ventrue grinds out. 

“I’d offer you two a seat in my lounge, maybe some freshly squeezed raccoon. But the leaders of both the Camarilla and Anarchs wouldn’t be coming here just to chat, now, would they?”

The twisted visage of a Nosferatu peers down at the sodden men. His white fangs glimmer underneath the hanging lights as he draws back thin lips into a sneering smile.

“So dry yourself off, boys. Tell the Gorgeous Gary Golden what’s managed to get the cats and dogs working together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will have a very special character make her first appearance ;)  
> two friends in the sewers.... they might kiss.... but the sheriff was chaperoning so ig not :/


	10. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Lunchbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I loosen my heart strings in high hopes of starting to find something truthful  
> Cynicism isn't wisdom, it's a lazy way to say that you've been burned  
> It seems, if anything, you'd be less certain after everything you ever learned  
> \- Cynicism, Nana Grizol

“Gary, we have to talk.” Sebastian grits out, wringing the damp from his turtleneck.

“Prince LaCroix, in a rush for once?” Gary leers, looking away with a dismissive snort.

The Nosferatu ignores Sebastian, leading the three Kindred further into the cavernous Warrens. They duck under low-hanging ceilings, and weave around discarded, or stolen, couches, road signs, and kitchen appliances. The Warrens glitter and glow from the myriad of lights strung up along the walls and ceiling.

“Can’t say I expected to see your little face ever again.” He says, as they cross a creaky wooden bridge. Gary’s yellow eyes flick over to Nines. “Same with you, Rodriguez. The last juicy bit of gossip on you two involved more terrorism and Sabbat agitation than courtroom spats tend to hold.”

“Yes, well,” Sebastian mutters, shoulder knocking against a stop sign with a muted clang. “More has occurred than the usual politicking.”

“So I’ve heard,” Gary drawls. He pulls himself up and over a ledge, not waiting for the other three to catch up.

Despite the gloom of the caverns and its proximity to the sewers, Nines can see that most of the items they come across are well cared for. Like they were cleaned and maintained on a regular basis.

A battered old teapot sits on a wooden table with too many nails hammered in to reinforce the joints. The jagged tear in a sofa cushion had been sewn shut with precise red stitching, the flower pattern re-aligning perfectly. They pass a graffiti mural depicting a colourful field of flowers, the fat bodies of bumble bees and dandelions made fuzzy from the use of spray paint.

The Nosferatu exuded a prickly exterior to outsiders, but the Warrens is their home. It was only here they let themselves be soft.

“I do hope you’ll forgive the mess,” Gary snickers, as Nines trips over a toppled metal shelf. “We didn’t think we’d have visitors so soon.”

“You by chance talking about the Sabbat?” Nines asks. He sees something shifting in the corner of his eye. When Nines whips his head around to look at the shadows, though, he just sees a lamp. Vintage Tiffany, with pink and blue stained glass. 

Gary barks out a laugh that echoes through the caverns. There’s a chittering call that rattles down the hall in response. It raises the hairs on the back of Nines’ neck; he swears the walls are moving, too. 

  
“You really think those cannibals have any idea where we are?” Gary replies, large smirk baring his twisted fangs. “They’ve been lurking in the catacombs since the seventies, never found us and never will.”

With one grand gesture, Gary pushes open a set of heavy double doors. Their green paint is in strangely good condition, considering how humid it was in the Warrens. Nines wipes away the water trickling down his forehead, it smells faintly metallic.

“I was talking about one of _your people,_ on some convoluted snipe hunt, making a grand entrance and demanding help for one reason or another.” The Nosferatu corrects, sauntering into a small room lined with rugs and old bookcases.

There’s a large dining table with matching chairs sitting at it. Nines ignores the skeletons draped in them, and the rotting rats on silver platters.

“Apologies for not sending some frazzled fledgling to come and pester you,” Sebastian replies, rolling his eyes. “This matter is of more significance than a low ranking Kindred would be appropriate for, anyways.”

Gary looks over to Sebastian, brow ridge raised.

“Oh? Do tell, boss.” The Nosferatu Primogen almost brazenly talks down to the Prince, instead of acting like a good little Camarilla lackey. If anything, Nines has to respect the guy’s balls. Sebastian doesn’t appear phased, but Nines notices his jaw tense for a moment before he replies.

“You’ve no doubt heard of the Ankaran Sarcophagus and the mystery surrounding it.”

“Gehenna and all that doom and gloom, eh? The apocalypse was never my style.” Gary replies, picking at his nails.

“The Sabbat has used its coming as incentive to begin their advancement on Los Angeles. Getting it, and its contents, out of Sabbat hands should be our primary concern.”

“So? Get to the point, boss. My schedule’s packed.”

“They need a key to open the Sarcophagus. We believe one of yours has stolen it, somehow.”

Gary pauses. Nines sees a glint in his eyes that says Gary knows exactly who Sebastian is talking about.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, it was one of mine who got their hands on the key.” The Nosferatu starts, his saccharine tone drooling out. “Do you have a place more secure than the Warrens? Maybe it’s best if you delegate the maintenance of priceless artefacts to the clan known for their secrets.”

“So you want to give the Sabbat an even better reason to find the Warrens?” Nines drawls. “Because they were just sending monsters to find you guys. If a True Sabbat worth their salt is sent into the sewers, I don’t doubt they’ll sniff you crawlers out in a matter of days. You want the heat off the Warrens? Then remember that the key’s the source of it all.” 

Gary sneers down at Nines with a look meant to make the paparazzi wilt. Nines returns the look with a raised brow, undaunted. With a huff, the Nosferatu turns to his Prince, looking for one final opinion.

“Wherever the key goes,” Sebastian starts, straightening at the attention. “The Sabbat will follow. Focusing their forces in order to get their hands on it. Where would you rather they be? Fighting the joint power of the Camarilla and Anarchs, or finding their way through the sewers as we just had.”

Sebastian’s grey stare meets his Primogen’s, the faint brush of Presence making him seem older, more imposing. Nines blinks and it’s Sebastian once more, but only when he really focuses. The Nosferatu squints, mulling their words over.

Gary’s shoulders slump from where they had risen, taking in their reasoning. Nosferatu put their clan first before anything else. The threat of the Sabbat was very real now that they were on the offensive. Nines hears him sigh and mutter a string of dark curses under his breath. _It was probably that little shit again. Can’t believe I’m getting roped into this madness._

“Kid.” Gary calls out suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Nines and Sebastian look to each other, confused. Both are older than Gary.

“I know you’ve been listening, and I have a feeling you’re involved in this. May as well introduce yourself to our lovely guests.” Gary straightens, crossing his arms.

There’s a beat of silence, as nothing happens.

“Gary –” Sebastian starts. Gary holds up a hand, looking around them.

“Just give ‘em a moment.” The Primogen mutters.

He seems to catch sight of something in the shadows. The Nosferatu kneels down, facing the corner where bookshelf meets the wall.

“You’re not in trouble,” Gary says, strangely gentle. “We just need to ask you a couple questions.”

Nines and Sebastian look over to where Gary is facing, leaning in with anticipation.

The shadows flinch and ripple. And then something pulls away from them. Nines blinks, realising he’s looking at a small Nosferatu.

Large eyes look up at the men; framed by wrinkled skin that’s covered in patches of fine, mousy fuzz. Black hair runs down their face and past their shoulders in tangled strands. Thick, twisted fangs protrude from a wide mouth, pushing against their upper lip. Long, pointed ears are angled back in a show of shyness.

A bright pink t-shirt hangs off the Nosferatu’s slight frame, as they inch forwards from the darkness. Hunched over to make themself appear more vulnerable. They were tiny. Like… like they were just a kid. But what kind of monster would Embrace a child?

“Hey kiddo.” Gary starts, holding out his hand.

The Nosferatu looks up at the other three Kindred with an intelligent stare, before wrapping their knobbly talons around his thumb. Gary places his index and middle fingers around their hand in a show of comfort.

The entire sight is strange. _Gary Golden_ , of all Kindred, showing a tender kindness. Perhaps it was his bias towards Nosferatu, or maybe the small Kindred had managed to burrow their way into Gary’s withered old heart. Either way, Nines frowns.

“These three gentlemen have been asking for something important. I have a feeling you know what that is.”

The Nosferatu’s head tilts, and Nines realises their mouth might be too full of teeth for them to speak properly.

“Remember that weird lookin’ cylinder?” A nod. “Can you bring it here, so we can check that it isn’t something bad?” A moment of hesitation, then a nod. With the sound of bare feet hitting stone, the small Nosferatu scutters away into the Warrens.

Gary stands, looking down the hallway the Nosferatu disappeared to.

“Gary.” Sebastian starts, voice slow and dangerous. “Did you Embrace a child.”

“It’s pretty damn enraging you think so low of me, to even suspect I’d do that to a kid,” Gary growls, matching the Ventrue’s tone. “But I’m going to let that accusation slide, considering you’ve only been here a couple months, Lord Flaunt-LaCroix.” The Nosferatu turns to face Sebastian, his twisted features more severe in a poorly concealed snarl. “But don’t make that assumption again, if you like your kneecaps where they are.”

There’s a tense moment where the two men exchange lethal glares. But then the Sheriff steps between them before it could escalate. Gary’s eyes flick up to look at the Nagloper, before backing off with a scoff.

“She’s some stray that wandered into the Warrens a couple years back. No one knows her name or real age, but she responds to Lunchbox well enough, so that’s what we call her.”

“And she just comes and goes freely? Isn’t that dangerous?” Sebastian asks pointedly.

“Not like I can control the little bastard.” Gary snaps back. “She’s better at Obfuscate than some Elders I’ve known. Has a habit of being where she shouldn’t be. Kid has a wicked sense of timing.”

“That why you figured Lunchbox stole the key?” Nines interjects, crossing his arms and ignoring the skeletons by the dining table once more.

“Now, now, Rodriguez. Assuming makes an ass out of you and me both. I just wouldn’t be surprised if she did, is all.” Gary remarks, shrugging.

“Sticky fingers?” Nines asks, a smile tugging at his lips. Mischievous kids can be entertaining and fury inducing at the same time, depending on the antics.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Gary says with a grumble. “Managed to steal some pearl from Abrams a couple weeks back, worth about a quarter of a million. That Toreador still gripes about the whole ordeal, even after I made her return it.” 

Nines’ smile disappears at the mention of the Hollywood Baron. He still had to tell Isaac about Ash. But what could he even say? That his Childe was a piece of _furniture_ now? That he was suffering every second of his existence, and Nines was too chickenshit to do something about it?

Maybe it would be better if he just said Ash had died at the hands of the Sabbat. At the end of the day, Ash was as good as dead.

Nines is jolted out of his musings by Lunchbox darting out from between him and Sebastian, clutching something cylindrical to her chest. Gary gives her a crooked smile as Lunchbox holds up a strange looking piece of technology. Glyphs, or maybe some kind of writing, is carved into the sides. It looks like it was carved out of stone, its dull colours pale in the light.

“It certainly looks archaic enough to be the Ankaran Sarcophagus’ key,” Sebastian mutters. Nines nods in response. 

Lunchbox turns to face the three other Kindred, looking up at them expectantly. Nines kneels in a motion not unlike what Gary had done earlier. Lunchbox tilts her head.

“Hey, kid,” Nines starts, giving Lunchbox a smile.

She blinks her big eyes slowly in acknowledgement.

“I’m Nines. The blond guy behind me is Sebastian, and the big guy is the Sheriff.”

Lunchbox ducks her head, waving shyly with one hand. The Sheriff nods in response, Sebastian simply looks down at the kid.

“You’ve got something that we’ve been looking for.” Nines continues.

Lunchbox holds up the key, waggling it for emphasis.

“Yeah, that. It’s really important. And if bad guys get it, they could do a lot of harm.”

Lunchbox’s ears twitch, as she takes in Nines’ words. She looks down to the key, frowns, then thrusts out her hand, palm to the ceiling. Gary barks out a laugh.

“The little rat wants a trade.” He supplies the confused Anarch. Sebastian rolls his eyes.

“She’s certainly a Nosferatu, then,” he mutters. Lunchbox makes an impatient grabby motion with her hand.

Nines quickly pats down his pockets, before carefully extricating a wad of damp twenties. He holds them out dubiously. Lunchbox gives him an unimpressed stare and shakes her head, hair swishing from the overexaggerated motion.

“Uh…” Nines mutters, trying to think of something else to offer. De Mer had taken his jewellery, and he doubts Lunchbox wanted a bush hook. “That’s kind of all I’ve got.”

Lunchbox gives him a snort of derision before turning away, nose upturned. It’s been more than seventy years since he’d dealt with a kid before, he’s rusty. Sebastian shoots Nines a look, Nines shrugs helplessly.

Sebastian sighs heavily. “ _Fine_.”

He begins unclasping his watch, Lunchbox’s ears prick towards the sound as she eagerly turns to face them again. Sebastian holds the watch up, it glimmers in the light.

“Nineteen-seventy-four Rolex Submariner 1680, Red. One of the only Rolexes to be produced with red writing.”

Lunchbox’s eyes widen as Sebastian rattles off the watch’s specs. Nines would give Seb shit for posturing to a Nosferatu adolescent, were it not for the fact that she was obviously interested.

“It’s worth upwards of twenty-thousand dollars,” Sebastian adds, smirking.

Lunchbox’s face illuminates in a wide smile. She darts forwards, Sebastian rearing up moments before she can snatch it out of his hand.

“I’m not giving this to you out of _charity_ , child.” Sebastian lectures, holding the watch above his head. “Now if we can come to an- _hé!_ Stop. Get off.”

Nines chuckles, putting his hands on his hips as Lunchbox begins to climb Sebastian to get to the watch, her sharp little nails digging into the expensive fabric of Sebastian’s jacket and trousers.

Sebastian cranes his head to look behind him. “Sheriff.” There’s more than a little urgency in Sebastian’s tone, and Gary laughs from the sight of it.

One massive hand firmly plants itself on Lunchbox’s face. The Sheriff gently pushes the kid off his Prince. She steps to the ground with a huff, glaring at Sebastian with a wrinkled nose. The Ventrue straightens his rumpled clothing with a matching glare of his own.

“Have you no grasp of manners?” He sputters. Lunchbox shakes her head proudly. The Ventrue sighs. “Give me the key, and the watch is yours.”

Lunchbox’s face scrunches up as she considers the offer, staring down at the key, then the watch; its silver embellishments glittering in the low light. After a moment, she nods decisively and walks towards Sebastian, holding out the key with one hand, and her open palm with the other.

Sebastian reaches for the key, but Lunchbox darts away, ears flat against her skull. She squints up at him suspiciously. He sighs and mimics her gesture; watch in one hand, the other outstretched. Lunchbox’s ears swing up again, and her face softens.

Simultaneously, they exchange items. Lunchbox darts away behind Gary with a sudden jump. She admires the watch as it glitters, twisting the bezel and smiling at the noise it makes.

Sebastian holds up the key, thumb running around the patterned grooves around its middle. It’s heavier than he expected it to be. A faint layer of white sandstone dust sticks to Sebastian’s thumb. He wipes it off on his trousers, leaving a streak of white, before handing the key to the Sheriff.

Out the corner of his eye, Nines sees Gary discretely wrap an arm behind him to pat Lunchbox’s head. The older Nosferatu mutters something to the younger, hidden by Sebastian’s muttering. Lunchbox stands, disappearing into the shadows with a final glint from the silver watch.

“Well,” Gary starts, crossing his arms. “Now that your business here is finished, I would recommend not loitering. The Nosferatu aren’t too keen on sharing their home with a couple smooth faced Kindred like the three of you.”

“Yes, Rodriguez and I should be making our way back to Downtown.” Sebastian concurs, nodding to Nines - who returns the gesture. Gary’s gaze flicks between them, brow raised.

“Yes, you two certainly are… _close_ , now aren’t you?” Gary leers with a lecherous smile. “You sure killing Sabbat minions wasn’t the only physical activity you gentlemen got up to together?”

Nines blinks, eyes wide. He doesn’t think he heard Gary correctly. Beside him, Sebastian makes a choking sound.

“I – I beg your pardon?” Sebastian sputters out. “Do not make such allusions of your Prince!”

  
“Oh don’t suck your cravat any further up your ass, LaCroix. Just making an observation,” Gary purrs. “That is my job, you know.”

Sebastian gives Gary a glare, hands balled into fists. Nines clears his throat and looks anywhere but Sebastian, wishing the ground would swallow him up. Gary rolls his eyes at the spectacle. The Sheriff sighs, inaudibly.

“We’ll be making our leave now.” Sebastian grits out. Gary shrugs, taking the dismissal as it was.

“Shit, hope a manhole’s going to be easier to find than the Warrens,” Nines mutters to the ceiling, eager to change the subject. He wasn’t looking forward to retracing his steps through the sewers.

Gary jabs a thumb behind him, to a tunnel carved into the rock.

"Just take the ladder out. We don't have any exits back into the sewers that the Sheriff will fit through, anyways."

They immediately begin walking towards the exit, Nines letting out a sigh of relief. Sebastian stops. He blinks once.

"There is another entrance to the Warrens."

"There's hundreds, boss."

The look Sebastian gives Gary could curdle milk. The Nosferatu chortles at their suffering, before disappearing back into the darkness of the Warrens. They make their ascent alone, the invisible stares of Obfuscated Nosferatu turning away, curiosity satisfied.

* * *

The Frenchman spits curses under his breath as they climb the steep ladder out of the tunnel. It rises into a kind of boxy hole, some poor soul’s skeletal remains shoved over to the side. Viciously, Sebastian thrusts the wooden door open and they crawl into a dark mausoleum.

Nines blinks the dust out of his eyes as they stand, the Sheriff’s considerable bulk managing to squeeze through the small opening. They walk through the tall halls of the mausoleum, brass handles shining against the faint moonlight that streaks in from the barred windows. Nines catches the plaques of famous actors and writers amongst the dead, and gets an idea of where they might be.

Damp shoes squelch against the marble as they reach the only door – a dark wood that looms over the Sheriff. With a sharp shove, the Nagloper forces it open and Nines feels fresh air on his face for the first time in what had felt like ages.

It’s quiet at first. Even the zombies that had a habit of sprouting from the Hollywood Forever Cemetery are absent, leaving behind a smog of stillness. A car alarm goes off in the distance, glass breaks, electricity buzzes along outdated electric lines.

Nines would be soothed by the familiar sounds calling out from beyond the cemetery, if he couldn’t see the outline of Abrams Golden Age Jewelry.

“Right then.” Sebastian huffs out, brushing the dust out of his hair. His eyes drift up to the sky, squinting at it before turning his attention to the other two Kindred. “We should ensure the key is safely delivered to one of our own. I would recommend the chantry hold it, the Tremere have a veritable fortress in Downtown and could hold off a siege for some time.”

Nines nods numbly, not taking his eyes off the building.

“I’ll call a cab for us. Hopefully there will be no Sabbat lurking around the cemetery of all places…” Sebastian mutters, pulling out his flip phone. The thing somehow still worked after their plunge into the underwater lake.

Nines shakes his head.

“No, I’m staying behind for a while. Have to break… the news, to Isaac and Velvet.” Nines says, sombre expression falling over his face.

“Oh.” He replies. “I see.” Sebastian hesitates, looking to the ground with a frown.

“Then, I’ll come with you.” The Ventrue says, gaze flicking up to the Brujah.

Nines frowns. The Sheriff raises a single eyebrow.

“What?” Nines shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, you don’t have to.”

“I would like to.” Sebastian replies, jerking his head to look up at Nines with a stubborn set in his jaw. “I doubt Abrams is going to act appropriately regardless of what you say. It would be best if you didn’t go alone.”

“The Sheriff –”

“Can fend for himself on the journey to Downtown.” Sebastian turns to the Sheriff. “Unless you too want to take up space in the Baron’s parlour?”

The Nagloper snorts, shaking his head. Sebastian hums.

“Take the key to Strauss, make sure he shows you where he squirrels it away. I don’t want the Regent getting any ideas about using it as leverage once this is all done.”

The Sheriff nods once, lumbering up the hill and disappearing into Hollywood.

Nines sighs heavily.

“What?” Sebastian prods.

“You’re real fucking nosy, you know that?”

Sebastian chuckles, brow raised. “Coming from the man who asked incessant question both in the monastery and the sewers?”

“Nah, that was curiosity.”

“I’d mention what it did to the cat, but you’re more of a dog.”

Nines lets out a laugh that shakes his shoulders, shoving his hands in his pockets as they begin to walk. They’re stalling, but he doesn’t mind that as much.

“Still chafed after Gary?” Nines responds, nudging Sebastian with an elbow. “Taking it out on some poor, defenceless Anarch to feel better about yourself?”

Sebastian scoffs. “Please, defenceless? Maybe if we didn’t just spend several hours carving our way through Tzimisce flesh-creations, that performance would have garnered some sympathy.”

The two men continue their back and forth, picking their way up the hill and past the iron gates of the cemetery. Both too invested in their conversation to notice a pair of red eyes in the window of Romero’s cabin watching them leave.

* * *

The outer light that hangs above the side door burns yellow rays across Nines’ face. He stares at the closed door with an increasing feeling of dread. Sebastian turns, staring out past the chain-link fence to Downtown, giving Nines a moment of privacy to gather himself.

With one final sigh, dread draping itself across his shoulders, Nines lifts up his hand and knocks on Isaac’s door.

Velvet opens the door, after looking out the peephole to see who it was.

“Oh, Nines,” she starts, giving him a dazzling smile. “We didn’t expect you to be back so… soon…”

Velvet’s face drops when she sees it’s just Nines and Sebastian. Even from Nines’ expression, Velvet knows something is wrong. Her mouth thins as she presses her lips together. Velvet gives Nines a shaky smile and welcomes him inside.

Isaac sits at his desk, like he had not moved from it in some time – he’s still wearing the same suit. Isaac’s brows shoot up when he sees Nines enter the shop.

Isaac immediately stands, hands gripping his table and face warped in a worried expression.

“Did you -” The Toreador stops, clearing his throat and composing himself. “Have you found out anything about Ash?”

Nines straightens his shoulders. “Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

Isaac looks like he’s about to smile. But Nines’ demeanour makes him hesitate. The Baron frowns, closing his eyes a moment as he braces for bad news.

“Well… Out with it then.” Isaac grinds out from a clenched jaw. “Say what you came here to say.”

“We went to the address. 609 King’s Way,” Nines starts, trying to keep his voice level. “We… It was a Sabbat haven. Ash, he’s dead. I – we found him in the mansion. He was killed by the Sabbat.”

There’s a ripple of silence, before the news finally crashes down on the two Toreador. Velvet’s face crumples and she covers her mouth with one hand, the other arm wrapping around her torso in a self-hug. Velvet’s brows knit together, and a keening sob rips itself from her throat.

Isaac, though. Isaac stares at Nines with a burning, grey glare.

“Liar.” The Baron’s voice is a low growl. One Nines has never heard him use before.

Nines jerks back, frowning. “Isaac –”

“No. You’re lying to me. Lying to Velvet.” Isaac looks ready to vault over his desk, face twisted up in a snarl. “Ash is still alive and there’s something you’re not telling me!”

Nines rears back, then realises with a plummet that Isaac knows Ash is still alive. Their blood bond. Velvet looks up at Nines, whose mouth hangs open, trying to figure out what to say next. Her wide eyes are stained pink from the blood. They share eye contact, then Velvet looks away.

“Get the fuck out of my store. Do not lie to me again. Ash is still out there, and you come in here trying to tell me otherwise? You’ll never replace the space Jeremy left; you’re not even worth the goddamned space you take up already.”

Coming from Isaac, the accusation hits harder.

“Isaac, I –”

“ _Get out_.” Isaac’s hand flies up to point at the door behind Nines, silver rings flashing in the light above, emphasising the violent motion.

His fangs are bared, fury blazing in his eyes. Nines often forgets the tempers that lie under clan Toreador’s flashy demeanours. And now he’s come face to face with one. Velvet hugs herself, bloodied tears leaving dark streaks down her cheeks. Her sobs the chorus to Isaac’s fury.

Nines bites the inside of his cheek. He’d taken a risk, and just made things worse. He bows his head, palms raised in a show of harmlessness. Nines makes himself scarce from the shop, tail between his legs and shame beginning to gnaw at what was left of his stomach.

The door closes behind Rodriguez. Isaac’s outstretched arm begins to tremble, before falling to hang at his side. He collapses into his chair with a choked sob. Velvet sniffles, off to his left.

Isaac presses the heels of his palms into his eyes with enough force to hurt. He feels tears begin to form but refuses to let them develop any further. Ash was not dead. He just had to wait for him to come back.

Ash was not dead.

* * *

Nines steps out of the shop and resists the urge to kick the door in. 

“That sounded unpleasant.” Remarks Sebastian.

“Let’s just go.” Nines mutters, dragging his hand down his face. Sebastian looks at him a moment longer.

“… Alright. It’s almost sunrise, it would be best if we found shelter.”

“Fine. The apartment shouldn’t have anyone in it.”

“I’m not too keen on staying in Hollywood with the Sabbat lurking about, especially after our little raid on Andrei’s haven.”

“Then where the hell are we gonna go.” Nines snaps, head whipping to look down at Sebastian.

The Ventrue glares up at him.

“I was going to offer my own haven as a place of refuge, but if you’re dead set on acting like a prick, go brave Hollywood on your own.” He snaps, tone severe.

“Fine – no, I…” Nines sighs heavily, feeling the surge of anger fizzle out into nothing. Sebastian wasn’t at fault here; he didn’t need to get shit from Nines just because the Anarch was feeling bad about himself. “Sorry.”

Sebastian watches him, expression slowly softening. He nods once, acknowledging the apology.

“Isaac did not sound very happy in there.”

“I fucked up.” Nines mutters.

“I see.” Sebastian’s head swivels behind them to stare down the alley, where a cat suddenly yowled and knocked over something metallic.

“It would be best if we continue this conversation somewhere safer.” He muses, hand falling away from where it shot up to his sabre’s hilt. “If, of course, you’re not against me repaying the favour and letting you stay in my haven this time around.” 

“You trust some Anarch rabble into your haven?” Nines forces out a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

“I trust you.” Sebastian says softly. Almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Nines’ eyes widen.

“Oh.”

* * *

Sebastian’s haven is a fucking mansion, because of course it would be. Angular, mid-century architecture fitting right at home with the surrounding outlandish Los Angeles real estate. But despite the grandeur and striking grey and white colouring, there’s something off about it that Nines can’t place. Like it was a piece of art, instead of a home.

Nines coughs, as Sebastian leads him inside.

“Apologies for the dust.” The Ventrue’s voice echoes against the high ceilings. “With all that’s been occurring, I’ve yet to find the time to call in a cleaner.”

Nines scoffs. “Yeah I’ll make sure not to bitch to the other Ventrues about the state of your _multi-million dollar_ mansion.”

“It was only ten million.”

“Uh huh. Listen, do you have a place where I can clean up? I smell like the sewers.”

Sebastian directs him to the second floor guest room with an ensuite. It’s as dusty as the rest of the house, but even the fine, grey film does little to hide the expensive marble tiles and rainfall shower.

Nines picks up a fancy looking soap dispenser and snorts. He feels like he’s duty bound to steal something from the room for the Anarch cause. Like a bottle of the fancy shampoo that sits unused on a ledge in the shower, or the set of fluffy white towels in the linen closet.

Instead, Nines shucks off his dirty clothes and steps into the shower, sighing as warm, high pressure water falls from the ceiling. Numbly, he feels the water pour down his upper body, sluicing away the filth and grime in a faint stream of brown. He washes his itching scalp, fingernails scratching harder than necessary to scour away the dirt.

Nines was still pissed at himself, at how he fumbled the situation in Hollywood. He goes about the rest of the shower quickly, using palm-sized dollops of the shampoo and conditioners.

The stuff had a sharp, masculine scent to it that Nines didn’t mind that much. Used to be, scented soaps and aerosols would give him a headache. Thankfully, that trait didn’t carry on into his unlife. 

Nines steps out into the bathroom, the cold air raising the hairs on his arms and chest. He sees his reflection in the mirror lining the opposite wall and looks away with a frown.

Drying off, then wrapping a towel around his waist, Nines pads down to the laundry room Sebastian had pointed him to, earlier. After a moment of cursing at the technology, he figures out how to turn the washer-dryer on, throwing in a brightly coloured detergent pod before twisting the dial and pressing ‘start’.

Nines leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed and the chill of the basement bleeding into his bare back. He closes his eyes, letting the rhythmic sounds of the appliance beat against his skull.

He fucked up.

He should have known Isaac still had the blood bond with Ash. Should have told the truth. Should have gotten the Sheriff to use Vicissitude to put Ash out of misery, regardless of the rush, and vitae already expended to heal Beckett.

De Mer had given Ash to Andrei, that was fucking obvious. If he hadn’t’ve gotten shot, maybe he could’ve killed the motherfucker during their escape from the monastery. Maybe, if Nines had paid closer attention to the hunters, he would have caught on to their plots and stopped this whole mess before it ever started.

He should have done something, instead of playing this game of politics that the Camarilla and Kuei-jin were dancing circles around the Anarchs with. Of all the times for MacNeil to be gone, it was now? Nines was a goddamned foot soldier during the Revolt, he doesn’t _know_ how to do this.

He should have –

The washing machine pings, jolting Nines out of his spiral. The clothes were done. He sighs, pulling the warm jeans, t-shirt, and jacket out of the barrel, quickly shrugging them on. The heat of the freshly dried clothes dissipates as Nines climbs the stairs to the ground floor, towel draped over one arm.

The space behind his eyes feels like it was stuffed with cotton. Nines rubs one of his eyes with the heel of his palm, just wishing day would come and he could finally fall into torpor.

Sebastian is in the living room, back to Nines. His hair looks damp in the low light, like he too had just stepped out of the shower. He’s wearing a sweater now, arms crossed as he talks with someone on the phone. Judging by the clipped tone and mention of the key, Nines has a feeling it’s Strauss.

Sebastian ends the call with a final goodbye, phone clicking shut. He catches Nines out the corner of his eye, and turns to greet him. But Nines’ expression makes Sebastian frown.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

Nines clenches his jaw, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to ground himself in the motion. Blinking furiously, Nines tries to calm down.

But then he sees Ash’s face, then Isaac’s and Velvet’s. He failed them. A keening sound escapes Nines’ throat, as the old thoughts from the laundry room resurface, demanding to be heard.

He covers his upper face with one hand, choking out an apology and trying to back away. To retreat behind the safety of a closed door and deal with this shit in private. This was pathetic. _God fucking dammit._

But then a hand places itself on his shoulder. Nines opens his eyes, and sees Sebastian looking up at him, brows drawn together in an expression of concern that didn’t suit him.

Sebastian must’ve seen something pretty damn pitiful in Nines’ face, because the Ventrue clicks his tongue, sighs, then… then draws closer to Nines.

He hugs him.

Nines freezes, Sebastian’s arms gently encircling his torso, just under his armpits, and angling up to his shoulder blades. It’s nothing forceful, and Nines could easily push away if he wanted to. But when was the last time he’d been _hugged_? The Anarchs weren’t exactly touchy feely after LA started to go to the Cam.

Nines blinks, the shock of it all wiping away whatever breakdown had been gathering. He relaxes into the touch. With no little amount of unsureness, Nines places his arms around Sebastian in response. 

“This is about Ash, isn’t it?” Sebastian’s question was almost too quiet for Nines to hear at first. Muffled by his shoulder. Nines nods jerkily, feeling his fingers dig into Sebastian’s back.

“I fucked up,” Nines repeats, voice thick.

He feels Sebastian sigh.

“ _Viens là… viens là_.” Sebastian whispers, gently pulling Nines down to the couches as the Brujah sways precariously. Numbly, Nines lets himself be manoeuvred.

For a moment, they lay there on the couch, too tense to be comfortable just yet.

Then, Nines feels Sebastian’s chest rumble as he begins to speak.

"They made us walk," Sebastian starts, voice barely above a whisper. "It was just under two-hundred years ago, but I still remember it well. For thirteen days, and only ever at night. Before the sun would rise, they'd bind and gag us so we couldn't escape.

“I don't know how many miles we had cleared, but eventually the farmland bowed down to mountains and forests. Some had been injured beforehand, succumbing to their wounds. Others were simply too weak and hungry to continue."

Nines feels Sebastian’s thumb begin to trace circles into his shoulder. He isn’t sure who it’s supposed to comfort.

"There was a point where I almost shared the same fate as the latter. There was a man from the same as regiment me, we had served alongside each other for some years, before Waterloo.

“I... I stole his rations.” Sebastian admits, voice quavering. “Ate them in one bite like a drowned man takes in air. I don't remember any other meal that tasted as good as those dried bits of bread and meat. He died, two days after. I didn't. I think..."

Sebastian trails off, Nines feels him frown. "I think a small part of me will always feel guilt over it. But I had wanted to go home, more than I wanted to be a good person."

Sebastian chuckles bitterly, his lips stretching across his bared teeth. "The only problem with that excuse is the fact that I never returned to Calais. I was Embraced and spent seventy years in Romania. Then thirty in South Africa. Ten in England. Eighty in America."

The Ventrue falls silent once more. His head shifts forwards, resting against Nines' shoulder. Like telling Nines such things had exhausted him. When he moves his head up again, Sebastian puts a hand on Nines' jaw, so the Brujah looks him in the eye.

"Whatever guilt you carry, around Ash’s fate and whatever comes next, know you cannot bear it alone.” Sebastian says, in words only ever meant for Nines. “Remorse’s weight will kill you if you let it; and you cannot do that to yourself and your people.”

Nines feels Sebastian’s thumb brush against his cheek. The corner of his mouth tingles where the pad of his thumb presses. The Ventrue speaks in hushed tones, quiet enough for Nines to lean in closer. He can feel the faint sighs of air that leave Sebastian while he talks.

The vulnerability of it all would have made Nines immediately leave the room, were it not for Sebastian’s steady gaze. Pale blue eyes securing him against the storm. Instead, Nines rests his hand on Sebastian’s; fingers curling to rest against the sides.

“You did not do those awful things to Ash. And the ugly truth is that there was no way you could have stopped it.” Nines clenches his jaw, closing his eyes in a pained grimace. The grip tightens for a moment. “The blame rests firmly on the shoulders of De Mer and Andrei. Not yours.”

Nines holds his breath, despite not needing to. Their closeness becomes incredibly apparent; if he angled his face up, their lips would be touching. Nines swallows, feeling a clamminess in his hands he knows isn’t there.

There’s a pause, an anticipation in the air. Like Sebastian wants him to do something. Or maybe he doesn’t. Nines nods, instead. 

“Thank you.” He chokes out, throat feeling raw. He feels a hand cup the back of his head, as Sebastian holds him closer. After a moment, Nines relaxes into the crook of Sebastian’s neck. He wraps his arms around the other man. Fingers curling inwards.

Sebastian feels Nines’ arms encircle him, feels the broadness of his arms as they come to rest against his back. Nines’ goatee prickles at his neck, but Sebastian doesn’t move from it.

It’s a strange kind of silence that hangs in the room. Trepidation dances with a giddy kind of buzz as the implications of such an intimate position begins to sink in.

They should pull away. Be more upset by this than they are. Perhaps one should be angry at the other, for manipulating this vulnerability out of them. Sebastian should say something demeaning Nines’ standing in unlife, and Nines should start punching Sebastian’s nose into his face in response. 

But neither makes the first move to do so. Instead, they soundlessly shift closer together; legs in a tangle and chests parallel. It feels right. Sebastian sighs, trying to expel the tightness in his stomach. The curtains were closed. No one could see them. For now, at least, weakness could be tolerated.

Neither had been especially close to anyone romantically during their lifetimes. There had been flames in their unlives, but this felt different. Like sitting in a pool of water as it gradually warms up. Like the feeling of a winter sun on one’s face, after a long period of snow and darkness. Under the covers, cold, shrivelled hearts gingerly begin to warm.

Sebastian lays his cheek against Nines’ head, the short bristles of the other’s hair brushing against his face. Sebastian stares at the fabric of Nines’ shirt, as he lets himself breathe in the smell of the shampoo Nines had used. Despite it all, Sebastian feels at peace like this. He lets his eyes slide shut, as torpor takes them both.

* * *

_What do you have to report?_

"We're making our attack on Hollywood tomorrow evening. Sixteen hunters, Bach will be among them."

_Do they trust you?_

"Of course not. But they depend on my information, they will go where I tell them to."

_Good. Lead them to through High Street, we will be waiting in the theatre._

De Mer lowers the phone from her ear, screen flashing as the line goes dead. She snaps the hinge connecting the panels and removes the battery from the back. She chucks the pieces into a nearby trash can before ducking out of the alleyway.

De Mer realises her sword is overdue a sharpening. She squints through the bright lights of a convenience store she passes. The sign for the ‘Red Spot’ shines down onto the pavement in a cherry red mimicry of blood. The blade had gotten dull from the attack on both the mansion and monastery.

For what was to come, De Mer needed to be at her best. She turns into the motel her team had been staying at. She passes their rooms and hears faint praying. De Mer carefully enters her own room, on high alert for any intruders. When the only other presence is the hissing pipes and spiders, De Mer finally lets herself relax.

She pulls out a battered old notebook and sits at the desk shoved to the wall. Some of the pages stick together with dried vitae, from when she had made field notes.

The entire thing was written in a shorthand she’d developed during her freelance days; only De Mer could read it without difficulty. Others possibly could, given enough time to crack the code. But she doubts they would take its contents seriously. Vampires and other denizens of the night were simply myth, after all.

De Mer turns to a page near the beginning of the book. On it, a diagram of a man had been scribbled out. The skin and muscle of his torso peeled back to exposed withered organs. He had been alive, despite the obvious decomposition. De Mer’s first encounter with a true vampire. The sketch itself had been hastily scribbled down, then dutifully recreated afterwards.

At first, she’d thought he was just some thug trying to rob her, until he attempted to bite down on her neck. De Mer, armed with her army knife, had stabbed him in the torso in response. Only to discover, with a muted sense of horror, that the man was not affected by the attack.

She doesn’t remember the full fight, but by the will of someone higher than herself, De Mer had stabbed the man in the heart, paralysing him. Though she did not know what that meant at the time, when he had suddenly slumped down onto the dirty Serbian street.

But she does remember the fear in his eyes, as De Mer loomed over him with a snarl. The rage became doused in cool detachment, when she saw that the knife embedded in his chest didn’t tremble from a heartbeat.

So instead of yanking the knife out and leaving the attacker to choke on his own blood, De Mer had begun her first dissection. She would have thanked him, for giving her a new purpose in life, if he hadn’t had died moments after she’d finished the sketch. Ashes illuminating a charred skeleton before the darkness creeped back around her.

Now, De Mer stares at the diagram, lost in thought. Some of the theories she’d scribbled along the sides had been proven true, others false. Others still, she’d yet to find out. De Mer steeples her fingers, letting herself feel a jittering sense of excitement for a moment.

There was some thrill to be had playing the snake in the grass, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> v dialogue heavy, v emotional, but hey! lunchbox is here now! 
> 
> this'll be the last chapter for a little bit - I'm gna try and stick to the DB - WHDTLETST routine, but might focus on one or the other depending on where they are in their stories - i have the plots sorted out for both of them, and if i stick to the plan, there'll be about 8 more chapters of WDH (thank u kal for letting me yell plot ideas at u <3) So now it's just writing them lmao, thank yous all for engaging with my stories :') gets me excited to keep writing

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on tumblr if you'd like - https://iravaid.tumblr.com


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